Bravery
by citigirl13
Summary: "I am going to offer you a deal. Your companion can be taken back, left close to your city, and go free. In return, you have to agree to join our tribe." An AU story where Clarke stumbles upon a Grounder tribe and is forced to join them by their leader, Bellamy Blake. Bellarke story with some Linctavia. Full summary inside. Multi-chapter.
1. Chapter One

**A/N** : Hello lovely readers! So I am going to apologise for this long author's note, but it is important for the story, so if could you take the time to skim through it (though I will thank the reviewers who do consistently read my author's notes) I would be really grateful.

This story is very important to me. Firstly, it's my 100th story on this website, so of course, it had to be a _100_ story. I've also been working on it for a long time (basically before Finn died in 2x08). I've been hit with writer's block with this one and then was just plain busy. I've got the majority written in a rough draft, but this is the first chapter that I've properly finished.

 **Summary:** "I am going to offer you a deal. Your companion can be taken back, left close to your city, and go free. He will be unharmed. In return, you have to agree to join our tribe." An AU story where Clarke stumbles upon a Grounder tribe. In return for sparing the life of her boyfriend, she has to go with them as part of their tribe. Reluctantly she agrees, though it doesn't mean that she has to like it, particularly their leader, Bellamy Blake. Bellarke story with some Linctavia.

I estimate this story will be about four/five/six chapters, depending on how it goes when I finally write it all. So please, enjoy my 100th story.

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 **DISCLAIMER:** **I do NOT own** _ **The 100**_ **or any of the characters. I also do not own any quotes/lyrics/poetry used in this fic.**

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 **Bravery**

* * *

" _Becoming fearless isn't the point. That's impossible. It's learning how to control your fear, and how to be free from it."_

Veronica Roth, _Divergent_

* * *

 **I**

* * *

In your world, you may be able to be free. You may be able to walk from boarder to boarder, pass walls without finding your exit blocked, go out without any worry or protection. But in Clarke's world, that isn't the case. They had built their city in the middle of the forest, high walls surrounded and guarded day and night against intruders.

And she had hated it.

Now she wishes she had listened.

Currently she is in a cell made out of grey stones. She, like Finn, is unbound and untied, but it does them little good. They had been dropped through a hole down into the pit, and as far as she can tell, it's the only exit. She and Finn have already gone over every stone brick in their cell, and they can't see any way to break through.

"We should just stay calm," says Finn. He is sitting on the floor, his arms wrapped round his legs. He is lecturing composure, but his voice shakes when he speaks, and his arms are tight round his legs. "It's probably just a scare tactic."

She doesn't believe that, and she knows Finn doesn't either. Their people have told stories about what the Grounders or the Savages do to the people who venture out of the cities. They say that they cut your hands off so you can't fight, and then your feet. While in pain, they open your stomach and pull out your insides. Then they drag the knife or sword up to your chest, and pull out your heart. And finally, they cut out your tongue.

That is the tamest version of the story. Others whispered that they raped girls from the cities, passing them round from the leader of the Savages (those who claimed there was a class system like their own, from those that said they didn't have any resemblance of a society) to the lowest of the low, until the girl finally died from starvation and grief. Others said they were worked to the bone, fed the merest of portions just to keep them alive, so they could serve them.

She's not sure which fate is the worst. She feels that it won't be likely that they'll be allowed to leave.

"What were we thinking?" Clarke mutters to herself for the thousandth time.

She knows what they had been thinking. In love, desperate to escape the confines of the city, they had decided to make a dash for it. Finn had known a way round the electric fences because of a friend in the security sector. The night before they were set to take their adventure, Clarke had been unable to sleep. She pictured the wide acres of forest, bright flowers that grow in all sizes and colours, wild animals – owls and wolves and deer and horses. Imagined being able to run without people staring, scream and laugh without anyone hearing, find out what it felt like to lie in a field without people passing every five seconds.

Compared to all those dreams, she had disregarded the idea of any monsters hidden in the trees.

She has been so stupid.

Finn is about to say something, but they hear a scuffling. Both of them look up, Clarke shifting closer to him. There is no ladder that is lowered; instead a man drops down so fast he might as well be a shadow. Finn stands, and the two of them have backed up against the wall. Perhaps if he wasn't so muscular, so large, and didn't have weapons attached to his belt, Clarke might have tried to take him on. But she knows that she has no chance, especially when three more men drop down beside him.

Three of them are masked, dressed in dark material. Only the first man, the strongest one, is unmasked. His face is etched in battle scars, worn away from countless wars.

"I am the leader of this tribe," he says, somewhat stiffly. His dark eyes look from Finn to Clarke and back again, assessing them. "You have trespassed on our hunting ground."

 _Hunting ground?_ Of course. Clarke realises that, when she and Finn had been hoisted up in a well-covered net, they must have stepped into their trap. _Hunting for animals or humans?_

She wishes she hadn't thought of that.

"We're sorry," Finn begins when she remains silent. "We didn't know-"

"Of course you didn't," he snarls. Clarke flinches. "If you had known where you were going, you would never have come in the first place."

She steps forward. Immediately all eyes land on her. She begins to burn.

"Look," she begins. "I apologise for – that we trespassed into your territory. We didn't realise that we were disturbing your, erm, hunting ground. We promise that we will leave and never return. We swear, we mean you no harm."

She takes another step forward, though her heart is like a hummingbird against her ribcage, fighting to get free. She is too close to the man, his imposing figure bearing down on her.

He maintains eye contact with her. "That is not an option." Reaching into his belt, he pulls out a blade and throws it down in front of Clarke. Wide-eyed, she looks up at him. "You two will fight to the death. We will negotiate with the victor, and decide whether to release them."

She turns to Finn. His brown eyes look back at her, mirroring her shock. He remains standing against the wall, motionless. She knows exactly how he feels. A few days ago they had planned to make love under the wide blue sky, in a field of wild daisies. Now she is being asked to murder him – and not quickly either. A stab wound will mean a slow death. No guns here; no quick shot in the head.

She faces back to him. "If one of us dies," she hears herself ask, "then you will release the other?"

The tribe leader narrows his eyes. "We will _consider_ releasing the one left alive."

Clarke drops her gaze slowly, looking down at the knife in her hand. "Very well." She closes her eyes, taking a deep breath, and plunges the blade into her stomach.

She gasps, cries out, falls to her knees. Her eyes tear up in pain. She knows that she had to do it, that this option was the only one she would consider, but she never thought about the pain. That's probably a good thing. Perhaps if she had known how much it would hurt, she might not have had the guts.

She wishes she had died now, as soon as the knife had gone through her skin, but she doesn't. It's not because of the pain either. Instantly there is a commotion around her. Finn is by her side, his arm over her back. When she looks at him she can see his eyes moving over her, but it is all tinged in pain.

Then Finn is shoved out of the way.

Instead one of the guards has leapt forward. Finn falls away to the side – she can't even see him anymore. All she can see is the guard. She hears him say a word in another language, and he rips off his mask.

His face has scars over it – healed scars, old scars. But she only focuses on them for a moment, because his eyes draw her. They are the darkest brown she has ever seen, darker than Finn's. And they are looking down at her, big and round.

He barks something out, and the other men grab Finn. Clarke cries out, trying to stand. "You told me he would be okay!" she yells. She can feel the tears coming through now, thick and fast. "You told me you would let him live."

She scrabbles for the blade that she had dropped, but she can't find it. It wouldn't matter in any case. The guard's hand comes on her shoulder and he pushes her back down, until she is lying on the floor.

He is ordering everyone else about in his own language. She watches as he pulls something from his belt and reaches forward. She doesn't realise he's tying her hands together until she feels the material against her wrists. Too late, she tries to pull them apart, but the knots hold fast.

"Hold still," he says. It's the first thing he's said in English.

"What are you doing?" She pictures herself being gutted like a fish. She squirms, wishing she had stabbed herself deeper, been courageous enough to go along her arms.

He looks back at her. Those eyes of his seem much harder now, nuts. "I said hold still," he repeats.

Clarke sees movement behind him. Another man appears, kneeling on the opposite side of the guard. He unrolls a bag of some sort, and Clarke's breath catches when she sees the shine of blades.

She begins to scream.

"Hey," he says, and even though she's in pain and it feels like all the bones in her body are shaking, she can't believe they use the same slang. "Stop screaming. Save your strength."

"You said that – you said you would leave us alone! I did what you asked!"

"You did," he agrees. His hands move onto her stomach; she watches him tear her thin shirt in two. He speaks in his own language to the man opposite; he replies, and the next thing she is aware of is the guard putting his hand on her face. His hand clasps on her jaw, and he sticks two of his fingers – _his dirty, grimy fingers_ – into her mouth. Without thinking she bites down on them. She is perhaps aware of a grunt, but when she opens her eyes she can see his face unchanged.

Something else is put in her mouth. Liquid slips down her throat; she can't close her own mouth to stop it. It tastes chalky and...strangely sour – and medical.

The bottle is small and it only takes a few seconds to drain it. It is pulled away and she inhales, coughing. _Poison._

The other man has been attending to her wound. He is not wearing a mask, she notices; he has creases on his face, worn like the bark of a tree. There is pain when he touches it; she cries out, thrashes. _Just let me die, just stop hurting me, just let me go –_

She feels wetness on it, and the stinging increases. She tries to stop him, but the guard pushes her arms above her head, holding them there. More barks, and hands on her legs, pinning her down.

She is shrieking, crying, hurling insults. But she doesn't miss the flame right by her eye. She turns slowly, somehow finding it easy to compose herself. She's going to burn. They are going to fry her alive.

She actually feels worse when she sees him hold a needle through the flame. She has worked with her mother in Medical. She knows why they sterilise the needles.

Her body thrashes, but more hands pin her down. Eyes closed she feels a finger in her mouth, shoving something hard between her teeth. "Bite down on it," she hears him advise.

Clarke feels the needle go in.

She screams.

* * *

She wakes up slowly.

It's so bright, and she blinks a few times. She is in a tent. She turns her head, a crinkling round her head. A _pillow_. Her head is on a fucking _pillow._

 _Who are these people?_

She sits up, and pain ripples through her stomach. Clarke's hand immediately goes to the wound. When she looks down she sees that it has been stitched up. It's a bit crooked, a bit just-out-of-medical-school, but it's done the job. The stitches are holding. The wound will heal.

It's only once she's checked out her wound that she notices that her top half, beside her bra, is naked. She hurriedly moves her hands further down, under the thick fur cover, and sags when she realises that her jeans are still on. They haven't been moved.

She stills, trying to think. What are they doing with her? They tell her that she has to die, but then they save her life? Why?

 _Finn._ Her head snaps round, as if Finn could have been in another bed further away. But although the tent is large, it's also empty save for her. Now that she knows she's okay, she takes more time looking round. There is a small table, and when she stretches her neck she can see a map laid out. A bowl of water, a cloth next to it. On her other side, some trousers, some shirts...something that looks like underwear.

The flap of the tent moves, the sunlight flashing. She gathers the fur cover over her body. A guard (not _the_ guard) comes through. His eyes land on her. "Our leader requests your presence."

Fingers grip the sheets of the bed. "Okay," she whispers. Her throat is dry.

Perhaps the Grounder notices, because he says, "We will bring you something to eat and drink first." He disappears for a few moments, enough for Clarke to attempt to calm herself before he comes back in. He places two small bowls in front of her. "I will come for you in five minutes," he says (Clarke wonders how he can tell five minutes have passed without a clock). Thank God, he leaves.

She stares down at the food in front of her. One bowl is holding a portion of water, which she gulps greedily. She then lifts the other bowl, sniffing. It's some sort of broth. She hesitates for a few seconds, but reasons they wouldn't save her life just to kill her. It tastes sourer then she would like and she pulls a face, but her stomach is growling and she needs this.

When he comes back she is standing, ready. She is wearing the shirt left out on the side. She has a feeling it's not specifically for her, but she'll be damned if she walks out in her bra.

The guard looks at her perhaps a little longer than normal, but he doesn't say anything, simply lifting the flap of the tent. She takes a deep breath (her wound aches) before she steps outside.

The sunlight beams down on her, and she has to blink again. She almost wishes she couldn't see, because she soon realises that there are dozens of Savages. All of them are muscular, some women, mostly men. All of them are holding some sort of weapon, a dagger or sword or (oh God) an axe. And all of them are staring at her.

It should make her cower. She _wants_ to. She wants to run and hide.

But she remembers after her father was executed, how the people in her class looked at her, whispering into their friends' ears. She stands a little taller. At least these people are openly hostile. They don't make her bleed with a thousand tiny pin-pricks. At least they are honest about their intentions.

It feels like she is walked miles before the guard finally leads her to the tent (how do they have these things? The stories say that these people live like animals, that they don't know the meaning of having a bath. So how do they have tents, pillows, things that they shouldn't even care about? She feels like she has landed in Narnia, where the animals talk and use knives and forks better than humans). They open up the flap and lead her in. Immediately the guard bows. "The prisoner, Your Grace," he says.

He turns. "Leave us."

"Sire, is it wise that you are left alone with her?"

He smirks, and almost immediately she finds it irritating. When he speaks it's in his own language, which infuriates her even more. But what he says works, because the guard bows and leaves.

He gestures to a table, at least as big as her dining room one. "Have a seat."

She doesn't want to. She would rather be on her feet, ready to run. She would at least like to be at the other side of the table, but he pulls at a chair (a handsomely carved one at that) right next to him, and Clarke can't really see how she can avoid it. She is, after all, a prisoner.

As she sits, she observes him. The first thing that hits her is how _young_ he is. He can only be a few years older than she is – five, six at the most. The second thing she notices is how ordinary he looks. He is strong, she can see in his muscles in his arms underneath his shirt. But when they used the other man, the decoy, Clarke never thought twice about it. The other man was huge, like a bear. It made sense.

This man, who is just a man – practically a boy even – doesn't make sense.

"Can I get you anything?" he asks her.

"Where's Finn? My friend?"

His face remains calm. He has gone to get a drink, and now places it in front of her. It looks like water, and though she wants to refuse, her throat is still dry. She thinks she sees him smirk again, but if so she ignores it. She needs to think clearly.

"He's in the cell still," he answers.

"Alive?"

He gives a nod. "Did you doubt it?"

" _Yes_ ," snaps Clarke. She leans forward. "You told us that you would only consider releasing one of us, that blood had to be spilled. And then..." She pauses. Is she hoping he'll say something now? He just stares at her. "You saved my life." The words are hard to part from her mouth.

"We did."

"Why?" It's been bugging her ever since she woke up. Why save her life? Why leap down like that to protect her? It doesn't fit them – not their words or the stories she's heard.

He looks right at her then. The gaze is so intense that it makes her shift in her seat, but she manages to stare back at him.

"You chose to take your own life, rather than killing your companion," he says quietly. "Most people are afraid of death. They will choose to cripple themselves, to kill others, rather than face it themselves. You, on the other hand, weren't afraid of it. You showed enormous bravery. We don't kill people who show that kind of courage."

She seems to absorb the words, not hearing them so much as feeling them. She can see by his face that he means it and... They value courage. She notches her head a little higher. "So you're going to release us both?"

"No."

That word feels like a slap in the face, a punch in the gut. "Then what?" she asks through cold lips.

Now it's his turn to lean forward. "I am going to offer you a deal. Your companion can be taken back, left close to your city, and go free. He will be unharmed. In return, you have to agree to join our tribe."

Every bone in her body goes rigid.

"Join you?" she whispers.

He nods. "Like I said, we admire your bravery. I would rather have you part of our tribe than waste it by killing you."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then we will kill your companion and you will come with us as a slave." He leans back, his hands on his cup. "It's not my first choice," he admits, "but like I said, we don't kill people who have your kind of bravery. I would hope that, in time, you would accept our way of life."

"So I don't have a choice."

He raises an eyebrow. "You have a choice: you can decide to come freely or in chains. You can decide to let your friend live or die."

"I _love_ him."

His face remains indifferent. Later she doesn't know why she was surprised. Why should he care about who she loves? "Then your decision should be easy," he answers. He stands again, wiping his hands on his trousers. "You have half an hour to make your choice."

"Half an-" She turns, following him to the door of the tent.

"Yes." The sharpness of his voice causes her to recoil a little. "You two arriving here has disturbed us. Our people feel unnerved at the presence of outsiders, unsafe. They're wanting to leave as soon as we can. Since we have finished hunting, I can see no reason to hold them up." He pauses for a moment, letting his words sink in. "I expect to have your answer in half an hour. If not, I'll make the decision for you."

* * *

When he returns (he gave her forty minutes; she knows by the watch she is wearing) she is in the same position, staring at the table, her finger working in the pattern of the wood. "Well?" she hears him ask.

"Will you let me say goodbye?" Her voice is thick. She clears it.

"Of course." His voice is soft. She closes her eyes.

* * *

"No." Finn is standing, pacing. His eyes are as wild as his hair, and if he could hit something he would. They have tied them together, presumably so he can't put up much of a fight. That helps them, but not her.

She tries again. "I have no choice Finn. They'll kill you if I don't, and just take me anyway. This way you get to live." Her voice sounds dead. She doesn't have any energy to put in it. It's killing her just to stand.

"And I'm supposed to be okay that you're sent away to be their _slave_?"

"Finn." She reaches forward, cups his chin in her hands. "Please don't do this to me. I have to be strong and I..." She feels tears welling in her eyes and wants to laugh. _Their leader thinks I'm strong? He couldn't be more wrong._ She kisses him, and tries to remember this feeling. He will be her last kiss. She wishes they could have slept together, could have had that happiness, use it as a memory where she is going.

But it's probably for the best. If she had ended up pregnant, who knows what they would do to her?

"Please," he whispers in her mouth, for only her ears. "You can't do this. I can't go back without you."

She pulls away. She wishes she could stay with him forever, but he's upsetting her and she can't cry. She has to show them that she's not a pushover. If she's going with them, then she needs to be as strong as they think she is.

"Tell my mom..." Her breath catches in her throat and she can't find the words. Twenty four hours ago she hated her mother, declared that she never wanted to see her again. Now she would give anything to be held by her one more time. "Tell her I love her. Tell her I'm sorry."

"Clarke." Finn is crying now, tears on his face. "You can't do this."

She looks at him. She knows that if she is responsible for his death, it will kill her. Except instead of dying, she will have to live with it. She can't go through that.

Not again.

"Goodbye Finn," she murmurs, and in that moment she somehow _knows_ that this is the last time she'll see him. She wishes she had a notebook with her so she could sketch him, but she knows the details that she loves the most – the way his smile quirks when he's surprised, how he's always flicking his bangs out his eyes when he concentrates – would never pass to paper.

She climbs the ladder – more like a piece of rope – with shaking limbs. The sun is right up in the sky, and once again it causes her eyes to ache. He is standing with two other men, and when he sees that she is done he speaks to the two guards, and they immediately head towards the cell for Finn.

She remains motionless. Indeed, even her chest moving when she breathes makes her body ache.

"You're done?" he asks her.

She nods.

"Come with me. We'll get you ready for the trip."

Her legs feel like lead, but she forces them forward. It feels like she is walking through deep sludge, every step sending pain through her body. She can't even remember how long they've been walking when he stops her. She blinks and she sees they are in front of a carriage (a _carriage_ ). She is about to climb inside when he touches her arm.

She winces, but he doesn't seem to have noticed. "What?" she blurts out. All she wants to do is be alone.

"I don't even know your name."

Her name. It sounds so stupid, like an awkward starter conversation of a date. She's not even sure why it matters. But his hand, though light on her wrist, could tighten its grip in a moment. And if she's completely honest, she's too emotionally exhausted to try and come up with a fake one.

"Clarke," she says.

He raises an eyebrow. "No second name?"

"You don't need to know it."

He watches her for a moment. "I'm leader of this tribe – the King. Most people refer to me as Your Grace or Sire."

"I'm not one of your people."

" _Yet_ ," he adds.

She continues. "I won't call you _my King_."

She is a little surprised when she sees his lips quirk into a quick grin. Whoever this guy is, at least he has a sense of humour. "My name's Bellamy Blake."

Clarke looks at him for a moment. Such a normal name, such an ordinary face – besides the scars. She still doesn't understand how he became the leader. But her mind goes to Finn, imagines him being taken in the opposite direction, the distance increasing even second, the weight on her chest getting heavier at the thought.

She enters the carriage without another word.

* * *

 **II**

* * *

The journey is three days long.

Clarke is kept in the carriage for the entire trip. The top is made out of the same material of the tent, and though it lets in light, she can't see anything outside apart from when she peeks out a hole in the wood.

Obviously this becomes old very fast.

She is brought meals, but most of the time she sleeps. She thinks it's more to do with grief than anything else. Not just for Finn, but for the life she once called her own. She thinks of the city now, and she doesn't see a tin cage. She sees her home, all the places she knows as well as the back of her hand. She would give both of them up to be able to go back.

Of course they still think she's suffering from her injury. The doctor – or whatever they call him, because he's not like any doctor she's ever known – comes in periodically to look over the stitching. He clearly doesn't speak English, but she isn't in the mood for conversation anyway.

When she peeks out from the hole, she mostly sees greenery, more than she's ever seen in her life: trees teaming with leaves, bushes with all sorts of flowers. Her legs twitch at the thought. Every now and then she sees people walking by, most of them chattering in their own language, laughing, acting excited to be going home. Sometimes she sees guards on horses.

In the city, they don't have horses. They have maybe one or two dogs or cats, but that's it. And her mother's allergic to the fur, so she's rarely ever been able to touch one. Horses are animals she's only seen in books. "An outdated way of transport," it says in the books. Outdated yes, but Clarke had stared at the pictures of them, with large heads and a bright, intelligent gaze, and had _yearned._

She wishes she could just touch one of the horses. She's always loved the idea of them since she was little. And if she was on one, she would have a chance of escaping. Once Finn is safe, they'll have no leverage over her. Of course, she would have to try and find her way back. Clearly that's another motive for keeping her in this carriage: so if she manages to escape, it's unlikely she'll be able to remember the route back.

Most of the time Clarke's left alone. Most of time.

At one point she falls asleep. The carriage is actually quite comfy, with two long benches on the side and one of the back, with enough room to lie down. The material is so very soft, comfortable to sleep on. And since she has nothing else to do, at least sleep allows her mind to switch off.

When she wakes up it's raining, leaving the carriage dark. She can hear the drops against the roof. She sits up, her muscles aching, and then freezes when she realises she's not alone.

He's there, opposite her. Bellamy Blake. He is leaning against the carriage wall, his head resting against his arm. It takes her a few moments to realise he's asleep. She tries not to move. She doesn't want to wake him. She briefly wonders whether she'll be able to escape, but the idea of leaving unnoticed by a whole hunting party is unrealistic. Another idea though, a better one, is trying to get a weapon from his belt.

Not even to use against him, or any of them. In case she decides she needs to end it all because really, what life is she going to have now?

She stands quietly, trying to creep forward. The wood underneath her feet creaks but he doesn't stir. Her hands are apart, in an attempt to keep her balance. She leans forward, deciding when to try and steal a knife, when the carriage tilts. It must hit a rock or a pothole or something. Either way it throws everything sideways, including Clarke. Unfortunately it throws her right on top of Bellamy.

Before she can blink she is thrown over again. This time she lands on the floor, her head bouncing against it. She feels her arms pinned against the ground. When everything stops spinning she sees Bellamy's face above hers.

For a moment Clarke freezes. His face is so fierce that she can feel her heart leap in her throat. But it only lasts a moment before he realises that it's her. He holds his position, his weight pressing down on her body. With his eyes on her face, she feels his hands move on her stomach. He lifts her shirt and her mind goes blank.

This is what she expected from them.

All the while her eyes are on him, and finally his move down. "It's healing nicely," he says, and Clarke realises: he's looking at her wound.

He moves off her, to the side, and only then can she breathe again. "Next time, can you wake me by tapping me on the shoulder?" She doesn't reply, and watches as he wipes his face. "Last time I checked we were about a day away from home. How're you doing?"

"Apart from being attacked, fine."

"Thirsty? Hungry?"

"Fine," she repeats.

"Do you want to stretch your legs a bit?"

She shakes her head.

He narrows his gaze. "You're going to have to come out eventually."

"These are your people. Not mine." Her words taste bitter, even to her. "And if you dare say _yet_ I will hurt you."

He laughs again, a quick sound, like he regrets it. His voice sobers. "Do me a favour and don't go out without me or a guard."

"Why?"

He leans back against one of the seats, his knees lifted up. "Not everybody likes the idea of you joining us."

"Yeah, they're not alone."

He ignores her comment. "Some are afraid of you. They're scared you might bring some of your people to us, looking for you."

"I can't stop that," she says. In truth she knows there's little chance of it happening. People disappear over the walls a lot, have gone on supply trips and not returned. The chances of survival are minimal, and the government isn't going to waste time sending search parties after people. Still, it's not going to harm her chances of being released if they think that she might be followed.

"But others have joined us before," he says, once again ignoring the comment. "So it's just the cautious ones. Most of the ones speaking out against you are my enemies."

She lifts her head. "Your enemies? I thought you were King." There is a hint of mocking in her voice.

"Show me a leader that's never had enemies," he challenges. His voice is harsh, and Clarke bites her lip, reminding herself to hold her tongue. When he speaks again his voice is softer. "I doubt they'll actually kill you. They'll probably encourage you to try to run, and then criticise me. And when we catch you, I'd be pushed to execute you."

Clarke meets his eyes. "And how would you kill me?"

"Quickly," he snaps. "If you were lucky." He stands this time. "What I mean to say is that you shouldn't trust anyone but me."

She snorts. "Are you being serious?"

"Yes." He pauses at the door. "Is it so hard for you to trust me? Have I lied to you? Have I betrayed you?"

She doesn't answer. She doesn't have to.

* * *

 **III**

* * *

She is half-terrified when they arrive. The carriage stops, but she had heard the talking and chatting grow, like a wave. She clings to the seat, heart beating faster than she knew it could. She can't imagine what these people will do to her. Bellamy's warning runs through her head.

Clarke doesn't leave by herself, though she is tempted. But she has no idea how many people are around, or the layout. She would be better off trying to gather supplies – food and knives – before trying to get home. After all, it's taken them three days to get here; it would take her even longer, since she has no clue where she would going.

" _...I'd be pushed to execute you."_ Clarke wonders how they would do it. Beheading? Drowning? Fire?

 _Well, you'd just have to outrun them._

Even she can't pretend this is a good idea. These people will know the route like the back of their hands. She would have to learn the area very well. _I could always steal a horse._ She imagines galloping through the forest at midnight, the cool wind against her face, the feel of flying through the air.

The door to the carriage opens. Bellamy's head peeks out. "C'mon," he says. Stealing a breath, Clarke stands.

It's dark, but there are fires dotted round the area, giving plenty of light. Clarke wishes they didn't. She can see all the faces around her, watching.

She can't help but look. A few are playing in the area, oblivious, and their screams of laughter feel out of place. Most people are unloading the carts, trunks and dead animals, but even they look at her. Clearly they have never seen someone like her before. She can't tell whether the looks are hostile or not.

Thankfully Bellamy leads her into a house – yes, a house. She has noticed the buildings immediately, cabin upon cabin. They look like one of the country houses in the old books. Obviously they're nothing like the houses they have in the city, yet Clarke can't help but be impressed. How have they managed to build all of these? It must take them ages. There a dozens of them, as far as the eye can see.

Her stomach gives a nervous flip when she wonders how many people live here.

The house even has a door, and when Bellamy closes it Clarke feels an enormous amount of relief. He takes her to a small room – one without windows, she notes. "You can stay here," he says. "I'll show you around in the morning."

"What about tonight?"

He had already turned to go outside, but pauses, glancing back over his shoulder. "Aren't you tired?"

"I've been sitting all day. I wouldn't mind a walk."

She's not sure, but she thinks she sees a glimmer of a smile on his face. "I'll come back for you once I've settled the village down. Besides, I want our healer to come and look at you first."

Clarke frowns. "It's healed," she says. "I don't want people peering at me."

"Just to be sure," Bellamy says.

The doctor does come in, and by the way he nods and smiles he has confirmed that it's fine. By that point Clarke has looked round the room. It's so modern it's scary. For one thing, there is a bed. Okay, it's a mattress, but it's lifted off the floor like the one she had back home. It's only small, but Clarke settles on it and finds it comfortable.

She's not tired though. She is restless. She wants to see the village. Bellamy seems to take a long time before he returns, as if he's hoping that she'll be asleep. But she makes sure that she's wide awake when he returns. With a jerk of the head she follows him.

He takes her into the centre first, and it takes a good few minutes to get there, through the mud-path streets. She feels like she's in an ancient town, thousands of years ago. "The well's over there," he says, pointing across. "But the river is just down that way; bit of a slope, so you have to be careful not to fall in. It can be deep too," he says, casting a look at her.

"Don't worry, I have no plans to drown myself," she mutters.

He points to another house, a larger one. "We all work there."

"Work?"

"Didn't you think it's strange how we have all this furniture?" He smiles when she guesses the answer. "We build them ourselves. It's a good way to keep people busy, and making clothes and things like that." He looks at her out the corner of her eye. "I know it's works differently in your world, but here we share things out equally."

She is about to answer when a little child leaps towards Bellamy. It's a girl, dark hair tied in a plait. She screams something at Bellamy, who laughs and answers back. He picks her up, talking to her in a soft voice, before putting her down. The little girl shoots Clarke a smile before running off again.

"You'll have to learn the language, y'know," he says as they begin walking.

"I'll pass thanks," she says, not really listening. Her eyes move over the buildings. People are still awake, like a swarm of bees, always working. She's not sure what time it is, but surely since it's dark everyone should be in bed?

"Hey." He grips her shoulder, moving her in front of him. "I told you what will happen if you run off. There is no chance you'll survive."

She looks right at him. A part of her wants to tell him that not only would she survive, but she would make it back home. But the best way her plan will succeed is when Bellamy doesn't suspect her.

It's not difficult to raise a hand to her a face, for a weary tone to enter her voice when she says, "I'm just tired."

She peeks out from under her eyelashes. He is looking at her, and even though his face is schooled into a mask of indifference, she thinks she sees some softness in his gaze.

"Okay," he says. "I'll take you back."

It feels like forever until they get there. After taking a walk through the camp she notices that this house is bigger than most. Not only that, but it's built better. And when she enters the house she sees all the little details that she missed: how there are doors leading to other rooms, a large smooth table made of sturdy wood. It even looks like there are pictures in frames on the walls, but Clarke doesn't take long to look at them.

"Nice house," she says as Bellamy leads her back to her room.

He tips his head, acknowledging the compliment. "I like it," he replies, a sort of wistful smile on his face.

That's when it twigs: the largeness of the house, how detailed it is. "This is your house?"

"This is where the leader of the clan lives," he says. "If there was a new king I would have to leave." His hand goes to the handle of the door. "Sleep well." She waits when he door closes, listens to the lock slide shut.

* * *

The next few days Clarke begins to learn more about this tribe. She learns that, aside from the warriors and guards, most people speak their native language. She even manages to pick up a few a few words, such as ones for food, water, medicine and other ordinary things. She learns that most people fear her. They are...not hostile. They tolerate her. Some scuttle out of her way when she walks by, pulling their children with them. Others glower at her. Only Bellamy speaks to her with ease, his body relaxed. But Clarke isn't grateful for this. In fact, it irritates her to no end. At times when she is getting water, or even just walking round camp aimlessly, she thinks she feels his eyes on her. When she looks, sure enough he is there, but he always seems to be looking in the other direction or talking to someone else. And there is always someone for him to talk to. He is constantly surrounded by members of the guard (who can tell by the certain clothes they wear – and the fact that they seem the strongest, most muscular, biggest people in the village) and villagers come up to talk to him.

She's trying to figure out the hierarchy. It's not easy. Clearly Bellamy is at the top of it. But she's certain there are other people who are important too. There are the elders who have wrinkled skin and wise eyes. Women who aren't afraid to speak out, glancing everywhere and seeing everything. Another boy, one about as old as Bellamy, who seems to glower at him when he isn't looking. She thinks there is some sort of council. These people have a meeting shortly after she arrives, though what about she doesn't know. Naturally, she is not allowed in.

For a few hours she is on tenterhooks, wondering if it's about her. She wonders if, despite Bellamy's words, she will be killed. She forces herself to sit calmly. She isn't afraid of death. And if the choice is to live with them or die – well, she knows which one she would choose.

But when Bellamy comes out he looks pleased, and chatters to her as normal. Whatever was discussed, Clarke figures it went his way.

She is watched over by members of the guard. They don't stick to her side like glue, but whenever she turns around they are always lurking in the crowd, watching her. And indeed, who isn't? All the villagers stare at her. She supposes it shouldn't be a surprise. There are few people with blonde hair in this tribe, and not the golden colour like hers is. She is weaker too. When she has to carry water it takes her forever, and her hands gain blisters which eventually burst, becoming even more painful. Thankfully she's used to being on her feet for long hours at a time, so she copes. Just.

What she misses the most are simply hours of solitude, time when people aren't looking at her or whispering. These were hard enough back home, but it's near impossible here. The only time she has is when she is shut up in her room – or rather, prison.

But it _is_ a bedroom. They could have shoved her in a cell, made her sleep on the hard floor. Instead she is allowed a soft mattress, furs to put over her bed to keep her warm, regular meals. And why offer her a life here? Is it really simply because of bravery? Looking at the scars over their bodies, it's clear these people fight a lot of battles. Courage, bravery, is likely to be favoured and admired here.

That lesson is reinforced a few nights after she arrives. She is fast asleep in bed (once Clarke falls asleep it is deep, since she is so exhausted from the hard work) when she is jolted awake. It's sudden, like she has been torn away from the land of dreams. Barely a second passes when she realises why. _There is another body on the bed._

Hands, rough and dry, pin her body down. Her first instinct is to scream, but her mouth is covered. She can smell alcohol, so strong is almost stings her eyes. She feels another hand pulling the covers away from her, at her clothes; she reacts swiftly, raising her leg and jamming it between his. Clearly whoever this is hadn't expected such an attack; he lets out a low but forceful cry.

She uses her legs to throw him off her. It works, though because his hands are still on her top half she falls down with him. Now unpinned, she lunges for him. Her legs are stronger than her arms, and she kicks him hard in the back. He lets out a cry, but when he turns he seems to be at full strength. He shoves her back onto the bed, so hard that she feels all the breath escape from her body. His hand pins against her throat and she can only let out a little whimper.

She doesn't know who he is – she knows it isn't Bellamy, he's much broader – but she knows she's likely to die. Hopefully that's all that will happen. But she refuses to go down without a fight. Her arms shoot out to his face instead of going at the hand around her neck. She hears his sharp cry when she finds his eye. The pressure round her neck increases and she everything goes dark, God she can't breathe –

It all seems to happen at once: a thousand voices fill the room; the pressure round her neck releases; she feels something wet hit her face. But all she can focus on is getting air in her lungs. She coughs, breathes, leans forward. She feels a hand on her shoulder and knows, without even needing to check, that she's safe.

When her vision finally clears again, she sees her attacker is dead. He is lying on the floor, but in this position she can see the blood trailing over the wooden boards. His eye, the good one, is open but unseeing. Her stomach turns and she leans heavily on her arm, bile twisting threateningly in her stomach.

There's a hand on her shoulder, and it's then she realises someone is speaking to her. She looks at Bellamy. He is leaning over her, and at first all she can see are those brown eyes, as round and huge as the moon, bearing down at her.

"...don't know how he got in here. What did he do to you?" He puts pressure on her shoulder. "Clarke," he persists.

"He didn't do anything to me," she manages to croak out.

She feels his fingers pass over her throat. "I wouldn't say that," he murmurs. "You're already starting to bruise."

"That must be why it feels like my throat's been squeezed shut."

She hadn't meant to be funny, but it gets a laugh out of Bellamy, and of the guards who had come in to help. One of them speaks in a low, gruff voice.

"What did he say?" she asks.

But to her surprise, it's the guard that answers. "I said that it's a brave woman who can laugh after she has been attacked." And when she looks at him, she sees his eyes are trained on her, and they're not hostile. She thinks there may even be a hint of respect there too.

She is taken out of the room, and into a larger one. At home, it would be called a living room, for there are chairs, footstools, blankets and even something that looks like a sofa. She is placed next to a roaring fire. It feels like she's going into shock, because she registers things in short bursts: a cup of tea placed in her hands, a blanket thrown over her shoulders; the crack of a log as the fire burns.

Finally she feels something on her hands. When she looks down she sees that it's another person's hands on hers. Looking up, she sees Bellamy's face.

"Drink your tea," he murmurs. He lifts the cup to her mouth and almost tips it down her throat. She's tried this sort of tea before; its flavour earthy and strong. To her surprise it's not as unpleasant as she thought. It does the trick of bringing her back. The room seems to appear to her again, bright and harshly vivid.

"I'm sorry," he says to her then, as if he can tell she's woken up.

"Why?"

He looks away, his mouth twisted. "It was my fault he attacked you. Nile was a rapist, and I banished him from our village. My guess is that he decided to take his anger out on you."

"But why?" she repeats.

He gives a shrug. "He won't have known that you weren't my guest. He would have thought you were a friend of mine, and decided to hurt me by hurting you."

"A guest that you lock in her room?"

He stares at her. "I haven't locked you in for two weeks."

She digests these words slowly. Everything feels detached for her, and she almost doesn't realise the danger she had been in.

Bellamy continues speaking. "I don't know how he got in. He must have been determined." He looks back at her, and after a moment rests his hand on her arm. "I'm sorry," he repeats. "Forgive me, Clarke."

She wants to yell at him, to tell him that she'll never forgive him. But in truth she is angry at him because he forced her to leave Finn behind (Finn, her only love, who already feels like part of a dream) and come to this strange place. And seeing him, bent down in front of her, face torn in regret, destroys any momentary fury towards him over this attack.

"It's not your fault," she says quietly. After all, who knows better than her what guilt can do to you?

"I should have killed him."

"No one ever lost any sleep over being too forgiving." She's certain she's heard that from an old film, a line that she always believed in.

"I would have, if he had raped you." It's not just the words but the anger in his voice that makes her wince. He sighs, standing. "I had thought that favouring you would have been enough to protect you. Clearly I was wrong."

She shakes her head. She remembers her father being dragged forward in court, found guilty of treason; her mother begging them to spare her daughter's life. "I have a way of attracting trouble," she says almost to herself.

He had been peering into the fire, but when she speaks he looks at her. There is a hint of a smirk on his face, a corner of his mouth lifted like he doesn't want to smile but can't help it. "Some people do," he murmurs. He steps forward, arms open like he would pick her up, like he would hold her. After tonight, she almost wishes he would. "I have another way to protect you. If I can I'll do it tonight. Whatever happens, go along with it, understood?"

She finds herself nodding. He replies with a jerk of the head and leaves her in the room.

She closes her eyes, leaning on the chair. She had never believed that being here would be this complicated.

* * *

In less than an hour he is back, this time with the doctor. He bends over her old wound (already she has new wounds and old ones), and speaks to Bellamy. "It's doing well," he translates to Clarke. "In a few days he says he thinks the stitches can come out."

Clarke nods. Her mother would have left them in longer, but she's anxious to have them out. They always say that doctors make the worst patients.

The doctor looks at her neck and murmurs. She doesn't ask what he says; nothing can be done for bruises. The tea alone seems to have helped. Already she feels better, more awake.

Once the doctor leaves he focuses back on her. "It's time," he says.

"Time?" she says blankly, and when he gives her a look it registers. "This thing you're doing to protect me?"

He nods again. "Can you stand?"

She must be feeling better, because there's a flash of pride and indignation within her. "Of course," she snaps, pleased that she sounds stronger than she feels. She pushes herself up.

She had expected a smile from Bellamy, but he only nods. He's obviously distracted. He pulls a band off his own wrist and gives it to her. "Tie the front bits of your hair behind your head. Your face needs to be clear." He looks down at her clothes, the ones that she has been wearing since they had found her. "I'll get you something else to wear. It's important," he insists when he sees her open her mouth.

He leaves and returns. To her surprise it is a dress, made out of soft white fur, without a stain or mark. It reminds her of warm blankets at home, and she finds herself eager to put it on. "Change into this."

"Are you going to explain?" she asks as she takes it.

"I'm protecting you," he snaps. "You could be more grateful."

She narrows her eyes on him. "I'll change," she says, eyes indicating the door. He hesitates for a moment, but instead of leaving he simply turns around, somewhat stiffly. She can't understand the change in him. He had been kind, almost comforting to her, but now he's so grumpy she wants to slap him.

 _He saved your life,_ a little voice reminds her. _Surely you can trust him now?_

She almost laughs out loud at the thought.

"I'm done," she says. The dress is short sleeved but covers her chest well. It's so soft that it makes her want to take a nap. It must be late now.

His eyes look over her like she is a prized horse. "That'll do," he concedes. She feels another stab of annoyance. He comes to the door, reaches out and pulls someone in. She is surprised when she sees it's a woman.

Her hair has lost its colour, but instead of being white, it's silver. She is the oldest person in this village that Clarke has seen. And she's blind.

But her face is smooth, and though Bellamy has hold of her she doesn't stumble. In fact she seems to have better posture than the people half her age. Bellamy speaks to her softly in his own language. He brings her over to Clarke, and she doesn't move.

"So," the woman says, her voice clear, "you're the _talenco_ everyone is talking about."

"Tal-?" She glances at Bellamy.

"It means outsider," the woman explains. Her hand reaches up and touches Clarke's face. "You're very beautiful my dear. Of course, the young always are."

"I'm always amazed how much you can see," says Bellamy. There is finally a smile on his face, and his shoulders have lowered.

"And I'm always amazed how many times I have to remind you that you don't need sight to see," the woman answers, her voice trembling a little. "It wasn't your sight that got you through the war, was it? I believe that was your courage. Young Octavia knows more than you to trust her heart. It will be so much easier if you learn to do the same."

Clarke glances at Bellamy. His mouth closes, and a part of her wants to laugh out loud: she has never seen him silenced before. She looks back at the old woman with more respect.

She is still gazing at her face. Her eyes are a pale colour, and though it's clear the woman cannot see they are scanning Clarke's face.

"It won't be easy for you here," she says.

"This isn't my home," Clarke agrees.

"I don't mean that you will struggle to adapt," she corrects her. Those eyes scan her, her hand resting on her cheek. "I sense that you've already had a difficult life back where you were born." She notches her chin up. "Loss is something you never forget. And the pain never eases, no matter how many years go by. I'm afraid I know that from experience."

This time Clarke jerks backwards. Bellamy's hand is placed on the woman's shoulder. " _Babaduo_ , cut it out."

"As I said, you don't need sight to see." This time the words aren't accusatory. They are spoken softly, and her sightless eyes linger on Clarke for an extra second. Her head turns in Bellamy's direction. "It's late, child. Unless you have something more to add, you had best go get a few members of the guards in here."

Bellamy leaves the room and Clarke quickly says, "What's going on?"

The woman glances back in her direction. "We are going through with a ceremony that will tie your bloodline to his. To attack a member of the King's family is an act of treason, punishable by any way the King chooses. And usually, when a member of their family has been hurt, they aren't very forgiving. Few will risk doing so. He is giving you the best protection he can possibly give you."

She blinks, startled by the answer. Tying their bloodlines together? How...primitive.

"How will they do that?"

"To bring your bloodlines together, we will hold a ceremony. When asked, you will give me your hand and I will make a cut across your palm. I will do the same with Bellamy's. You two will link fingers, pressing the cuts together, symbolically merging both your bloodlines. I will then tie pieces of cloth on those cuts to mob up the blood. Once those cuts dry, you will take Bellamy's cloth and tie it round your wrist. He will do the same with yours. That will show the other members of the society that you belong to his bloodline."

She absorbs these words, running them through her mind. It doesn't sound too bad. After all, soon she'll be gone, soon this will all be just a memory. Only here will she and Bellamy be linked.

"What about the hair? The dress?"

"They are our customs," replies the old woman.

She doesn't like it. But Bellamy is going through all of this trouble, bringing these people in, and she knows he won't stop. Besides, of all the things he could do, this is relatively simple.

Thankfully it's short. They speak in their own language so she has no idea what's happening. All she knows is that she and Bellamy are surrounded in a circle. She is directly opposite Bellamy, and he looks a little pale. Perhaps he's rethinking all of this. She's half-hoping that he will.

But when the woman holds out her hand, Bellamy gives it to her without a second thought. He doesn't even flinch when the knife slits through his skin, a red line instantly rising. So Clarke makes sure that when the knife goes in, she doesn't show how much it hurts. The worst of it is when they have to press their palms together. His fingers slip through hers and then bend, holding them together. Her hand tingles and she remembers – the last hand she held was Finn's. Just like that, another last erased, another memory gone.

Before she knows it, the cloths are tied over the wounds and it's over. The people file out, including Bellamy, and Clarke slowly relaxes. It's over. Somehow it felt like it drained energy from her. It's been a long night.

She falls asleep, and she doesn't think she's slept for more than five minutes when she is being shaken awake. "C'mon Princess," she hears Bellamy say. "It's time for bed."

"Princess?" she asks. She sits up slowly.

"Yeah. Now that you're tied to my family, that's your title. People may call you that. Better get used to it." He lifts her up and Clarke realises that he's taking her back to bed.

She holds firm. "I'm not going back to that room." She can still picture that man on the floor. His blood, seeping out into the wood.

"I'm not taking you there," he says. He is pulling her through the house, up the stairs – the first time she's ever gone up them. The house is sturdy. This place must have been built years ago, an existing town before the End of Days. The stories – or maybe she should call it the propaganda – said that all the towns were obliterated or uninhabitable. Clearly they were wrong.

They seem to be wrong about a lot of things.

He opens a door and shoves her inside. For a few moments Clarke's mind grinds to a halt. Maybe it's because of the shock, or the fact she's tired; but it's more likely because the room is so beautiful. For starters, it has two sets of large windows. Looking through them she can see right up to the stars. Somehow they seem brighter than she's seen them before, and for a few moments she just stares. There is another fire lit in this room, bigger, and almost unconsciously she moves towards it.

When she finally lowers her eyes, they are drawn to the bookshelf. It covers an entire wall, and every shelf is filled. She used to love reading, back home. There was nothing else to do but read, and even then...

Her father always complained about the lack of good reading material. Never outside the house obviously, but he would always said that all the books that were legal were complete bullshit. No one ever told stories that involved rioting or rebellions; even little snippets about the government being corrupt weren't allowed. Of course, that left books about teenage problems being solved, about good people who never did anything other than exclaim about how beautiful everything was or how smashing things were. _The Twins at St Clare's_ was always very popular.

He kept books hidden, under the floorboards. She had always known about it, ever since she was little. Her father would always read her short stories, ones about pirates capturing princesses, animals that turned into humans, falling stars that once landed on Earth that became people. She had always thought that it was fun to keep it a secret from Mom, never occurred to her that it was treason to keep these sorts of books.

She runs her fingers over them, unable to help herself. It's strange, what memories will do to you.

"Here." She had forgotten Bellamy was there, and now she jumps. He hands her a shirt and pair of trousers. They are lovely, made of soft fur, like the dress she's wearing. "You should get changed."

"What about my clothes?" she asks.

"What about them?" he replies. "You're part of our tribe now. You need to look the part." He heads towards the door.

She does change. She wants to chuck the dress over the floor, but at the last second she gently places it over the chair. It _is_ very pretty. But her eyes can't stop going round the room. It's not even the fact that it's the most modern place in the entire village. There's something about it, something she can't quite place.

Bellamy comes in, and he looks so knackered that she feels a quick stab of sympathy for him. He nods to the bed. "Go ahead," he says. "You must be exhausted." Before she can reply he lifts his shirt off.

It all clicks into place in that moment. "You're – I – this is your room?" She glances round. "But – why?"

His eyes are blank. "You were just attacked," he says, as if he's talking to a two year old. "It's not safe."

"I thought that by doing this bloodline thing you were protecting me!"

"I am." His words are calm. "It's just a precaution, until people get used to the idea." His eyes linger on her for an extra moment before he says, "It's not like we're doing anything – if that's what you're worried about."

Her face heats up. "No," she manages to get out. "But-"

He holds up and hand, and when he speaks she can tell he's losing his patience. "Clarke, I'm exhausted. And unlike you I have to get up in the morning. I get you don't want to do this. I get that it's uncomfortable. But you're staying here tonight. I'm not going to change my mind." He stares at her for another moment, before he says "Get – in." It sounds like his teeth are gritted together.

Clarke's legs feel like they're made of ice, and just as hard to move. Somehow she does, somehow she gets in the bed. Even though she knows nothing will happen, she imagines brides felt this way when they first had sex with their husbands in arranged or unwilling marriages. Her back is to him, and she doesn't move all the while she hears him walking round the room, even when she feels his weight come down on the mattress, even when he blows the candle out. The room isn't completely dark – the fire is still going. For some reason that makes it worse.

She is focussed on his every movement. She hears his steady breathing, measures it, panics when it changes. The distance between them is small, centimetres at the most. She thinks how easy it is, to reach over and touch her. That he's strong enough to pin her down and silence her screams. How he could rape her and no one would stop him.

That night seems to last forever. There is no clock, nothing to measure time to. She has no idea whether hours have passed or minutes. She starts counting, simply repeating numbers in her head, not bothering with animals like sheep or birds. On last count, she gets to over ten thousand.

The next thing she knows sunlight is drifting in. It isn't a harsh light in the room; it's softer, almost buttery. It's early.

She is about to roll over when she hears a noise. She freezes, and while she keeps still she tries to sense where he is. He's not on the bed; she knows this, though she doesn't know how she knows this. After a few minutes she hears another noise – the sound of something being shuffled aside, lifted off a table. She keeps still, trying to stabilise her breathing. Like he said, he needs to be up in the morning. With any luck he'll leave and she'll be able to do – well, to move around a little more freely.

It's hard to know when he's gone. She thinks that he's trying to be quiet for her. For a brief moment she is touched by that thought, but it quickly dies. To be honest she doesn't want to think about it, because she doesn't have a clear answer. She doesn't know what his intentions are. All she knows for certain is that, for now, he hasn't hurt her.

When weight comes down on the bed she tries very hard not to tense up. Every little movement sends a little spark off across her body, in her stomach. When he touches her wrist she feels a shiver climb up her spine. His movements are careful, deliberately gentle so not to disturb her. He gently tugs the cloth off her hand, and a second later she feels pressure round her wrist. He ties it so tight that she feels a sharp tug, a constriction.

Too late, she's opened her eyes.

Instantly she meets his gaze. His eyes are already on her, and that tells her he knows she was awake. They stare at each other. Clarke wonders if he's going to touch her, and then realises that his hand is still on the cloth. He hesitates, following her gaze, and then removes it.

"Sleep in." His voice is softer than normal, but she's not certain if that's because he's tired. The skin under his eyes is dark. How much sleep did he get? "There's food in the kitchen. If you ask the servants will get you something. Either send a guard or come for me if you need me." With his other hand he briefly touches her hair, which still has the front bits tied off from her face. "Your hair stays like this, okay?"

"Why?"

"It's to do with status. It's another sign that you belong to my bloodline." He stands up, but not before tugging the piece of material round her wrist. "This stays on too."

This time it's an order.

* * *

" _There are so many ways to be brave in this world. Sometimes bravery involves laying down your life for something bigger than yourself, or for someone else. Sometimes it involves giving up everything you have ever known, or everyone you have ever loved, for the sake of something greater._

 _But sometimes it doesn't._

 _Sometimes it is nothing more than gritting your teeth through pain, and the work of every day, the slow walk toward a better life._

 _That is the sort of bravery I must have now."_

Veronica Roth, _Allegiant_

* * *

 **A/N:** I know, another author's note! But I just want to clear up a few things in case you have questions:

1) I know that the Grounder characters – Indra, Gustus, Lexa etc – aren't in the story much. But as I said, I started this fic when the show was in early season 2, and at the time these characters were either minor characters or not in it at all. Besides which, I had fun with writing the original characters. I hope you liked them.

2) I understand this chapter is very long, so GOLD STAR for the people that read it all. I hope it wasn't a hard slog! I know that it is very long, but I don't write short chapters – I don't like stories where you have chapters where very little happens. When I update, I want to give you a chapter filled with a lot of things happening. For those of you that felt this was a bit too long, I will assure you that in my calculations (not my strongest point, I'll tell you that) this is the longest chapter. I wanted to set the scene and (hopefully) encourage you to follow and keep reading the story.

3) I worry that Clarke and Bellamy are a little out-of-character for this fic. What do people think? Are they OOC? And if you do think so, do you like their characters?

4) As I said, this story is going to be 4 – 6 chapters. I will try to update the story about once a week, but please remember I am super busy. But I do have an outline written out, so it shouldn't take me too long to put it together.

5) I hope you like the quotes! I particularly love Veronica Roth's quotes from the Divergent series, because I feel like it relates to this story quite a bit. If you ever have any questions about the quotes, feel free to ask me.

So thank you for reading! As a little favour, could you please leave me a review and tell me what you thought? As I have mentioned, this story is very important to me, and I've worked really hard on it. I would love to let you know what you think.

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 **Hours to make. Seconds to comment.**

 **PLEASE REVIEW!**


	2. Chapter Two

**A/N:** Hello again! I found myself with a surprising day off, and I was going to reply to all the lovely reviews that you all sent me, when I thought – why not just finish the next chapter? It's taken me a bit longer than I thought and I'm not 100% sure how I feel about it. (Sigh) My perfectionist side is coming out again.

One thing I would like to mention is how amazed I am at all the lovely comments! Seriously guys, I'm thrilled! I'm so pleased that you're all enjoying it so far, and it's only the first chapter. I think the reason I'm worried about this chapter is because I don't want to disappoint you lot. I really hope you enjoy it, and please let me know what you think!

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 **WARNING:** this chapter contains some medical information. I don't think it's that squeamish, but some people may find it that way. Just giving you a heads up.

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 **Summary:** "I am going to offer you a deal. Your companion can be taken back, left close to your city, and go free. He will be unharmed. In return, you have to agree to join our tribe." An AU story where Clarke stumbles upon a Grounder tribe. In return for sparing the life of her boyfriend, she has to go with them as part of their tribe. Reluctantly she agrees, though it doesn't mean that she has to like it, particularly their leader, Bellamy Blake. Bellarke story with some Linctavia.

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 **DISCLAIMER:** **I do NOT own** _ **The 100**_ **or any of the characters. I also do not own any quotes/lyrics/poetry used in this fic.**

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 **Bravery**

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" _Octavia was the only person in the world who truly knew him. There was no one else he really cared about ever seeing again..."_

Kass Morgan, _The 100_

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 **IV**

* * *

As much as she wishes it wasn't true, things change now that she is part of Bellamy's bloodline. People still look at her, they still remain silent – but some don't. She notices that when the guards speak to her, they don't sound condescending anymore. And when she's around, they speak English. Most don't do that. She learns their names – Links and Jeremiah and Jared and Solo – and they begin to teach her some of their language. It's not so different from her own – as far as she can tell the grammar is the same, it's just the words.

She has taken to walking around the village a lot of the time. There are walls marking the boundary, and for some reason this hurts her more than she would have thought. She's been stuck with walls for most of her life. The only reason she went over was to experience a place without them, where she could run without worrying about regulations, where she could wander freely. Now here she is, contained by another wall, another rule, another warning.

During the evening there is a large house that people go in – not everyone, but most. There's music and food, and Clarke thinks it's like some sort of meeting – like evening entertainment. Thankfully no one pays her much attention, as long as she enters quietly and stays in the back. Quite a number of people speak. She thinks that most of these are members of the council. Bellamy is usually at the front, either sitting back or speaking. Because they speak in their own language, she doesn't have a clue what they're saying. Well, that's not entirely true. Now she knows some sentences, some words: horses, hunting, food, shelter, children, people. But at the speed they speak, she gets lost. So she can only watch people's expressions. Most people seem happy or relaxed about what he says; only a few frown. A dark skinned woman is often shaking her head, though minutely. The blonde boy on the council is usually sitting up front, and his eyes are dark when he's looking at Bellamy. Clarke knows how he feels. She's sure her face isn't much different.

One evening she is watching Bellamy speak when she feels Links come up beside her. He's the one that admired her bravery before. He's the oldest and, from what she's heard, the most experienced of the guards. But he has a youthful look in his eyes that reminds Clarke of her little cousin, a straw haired boy whose laugh came from his stomach.

"He's organising a hunting party," Links translates. "The one you caught us on was a big one, but we need to keep up supplies. We need to make sure that we store up meat for the winter; might as well do it now while it's warm."

She thinks of winter. Even in the city, it's usually cold. She can't imagine it here. "Do people survive winter here?"

"We do," he says, but she can see a shadow crossing his eyes, making them darker than usual. "Most of us anyway. The old and the very young don't always make it. And then there are those who are sickly to begin with. But on the whole, yes, we survive." He looks towards Bellamy and she thinks there's a hint of respect there. There must be; Links is twice Bellamy's age and size, has twice the amount of experience. Surely he could take Bellamy on. "Still, you never know how bad winter's gonna be. Better to be safe than sorry, right?" He smiles at her. She finds it easy to smile back. She likes Links. He's probably her favourite person here.

 _I'll miss him when I go_ , she thinks. But it doesn't stop her. She needs to leave. It's not safe for her here. She has people back home – her mom and Finn and Raven, her best friend, Jasper and Monty, all of them. She can't just forget about them.

"Are you going hunting too?"

Links shakes his head, his dark mane shaking with him. "I'm not the best hunter."

"You're a guard," she says.

When he looks embarrassed she has to try not to laugh. "I'm too big for hunting. The only reason I go is when it's a big party and we need to watch over people." He nods towards Bellamy. "He's a better hunter."

That reminds her. "Can I ask you something?"

He frowns. "Yeah," he says slowly.

"I heard someone mention a war that Bellamy was in. I wanted to ask about it."

A shadow crosses Links' face, but when he speaks he sounds reasonable enough. "Your people, the ones that you come from... You're not the only ones who have to battle for territory. There are other tribes who we battle with over shelter and food. A few years back it turned ugly with another one. We won – or I suppose you could say that we gained peace – but there were many casualties. Our previous king included."

Clarke looks over at Bellamy, who has finally finished. The noise is growing louder, a buzz as people begin spreading out, chattering. "Bellamy's father?" she asks quietly.

He barks out a laugh. "Hardly." There is something in his voice, and she knows there's more to the story. Links straightens up and it's only then that she sees Bellamy coming towards them.

A look passes between him and Links, and the latter backs away. Bellamy takes his place. She doesn't look at him, maintaining a steady gaze at the centre of the room. These days she doesn't know what to say to him. Ever since that night she was attacked and he performed the blood tie, they have slept in the same bed. When she ever brings up moving to another room – or even her old room – she is met with either stony silence or another argument, which he always wins. The last screaming match left the both of them in a furious silence with each other. Well, he spoke to her, but it was in orders. She was still curled up in bed when he left that morning.

"You okay?" he asks her after a few minutes.

She gives a nod of the head.

"We're going on a hunting trip," he says after another pause.

Out the corner of her eye she looks at him and tries to keep her voice even. "Where are you going?"

"Not too far north of here." He shoves his hands in his pockets. Perhaps he can read her a little too well, because he says, "You're staying here. Links and Solo will look after you."

Her best chance of escaping is getting out of the village. Bellamy knows this. She looks away from him. "It's not safe," he says.

"According to you nothing is safe for me." She shoots him a glare. "Clearly you don't think that I'm in so much trouble if you're willing to leave me in the house alone."

It's his turn to glower at her. He takes her arm and pulls her away, out of the house. His grip is so strong that it almost hurts her. She gets him to let go, but only when they are out of the building.

"We're not having this argument again," he growls. He is pushing her in the direction of his house. "How many times do I have to say it so it enters your brain? It's not safe for you to be alone."

"People aren't attacking me anymore."

"The best defence is to be prepared," he snarls. "You're not going to be alone – I'm leaving Links and Solo, as well as some other guards. Links is not going to leave your side."

"Joy," she mutters under her breath.

By now they are at the house. Opening the door Bellamy shoves her inside before shutting it. "I thought you liked Links."

"It doesn't mean I want to be watched over like a baby." She shoves him away as he tries to lead her upstairs. She watches his eyes spark before he pushes her forward, harder. "I don't want to go to bed," she snaps, and inwardly winces: she sounds _exactly_ like a baby.

"You must be tired, considering the way you're acting." When they get to his room he closes the door behind them. He stands right in front of it, daring her to try and get past him. "Are you upset that I'm leaving you? Is that it, Princess?" His eyes glint, and Clarke takes a step back. "'Course, you can come with us. But don't think I don't know that you'll run away as soon as you get the chance." He steps forward and though she shuffles back, he is a lot closer than she would like. "If you want to come with us, fine. But if you do, I am not letting you out of my sight for a second." His eyes lower, watching her face. "I think you'd prefer to stay here."

It's only when he moves away that she can breathe again. He knows her, too well – or at least he can predict what she's going to do. She thinks over her options. To stay will mean that she misses a chance of knowing her surroundings. On the other hand, the look on Bellamy's face tells her that he means every word; he won't let her go, not without a fight. Right now she doesn't stand a chance.

The next morning, after a fitful night's sleep, she hears Bellamy get up. It seems to take him a good hour before he finally gets all his stuff together. He pauses, though she knows he's still in the room. Does he want to say goodbye? Or to tell her to behave? She waits, feeling her body tense up. Instead she feels his hand lightly move over her forehead. Then she hears the door close.

* * *

It's easier without Bellamy. Links follows her round like a lost puppy, forever making sure she is okay and that she doesn't need anything. But at least he's considerate and doesn't push her. He talks when she wants to and is quiet when she needs some peace. Much better than Bellamy breathing down her neck.

She seems to be the only one that is more relaxed. She sees that there are more guards at the wall than before, and that people seem to be a little more on edge. It could be in her head, but she thinks that she is getting more hateful glances, like when she first arrived. Despite her annoyance at having a bodyguard, she's grateful that Links is around.

Clarke had been looking forward to being able to sleep without Bellamy's presence, but to her surprise she's restless. Perhaps it's the fact that she isn't wholly convinced that his people believe in this whole blood tie thing. She hates Bellamy, but she hasn't missed the impact he has on the people here. They trust him, and clearly they feel safe with him there. In bed – _his_ bed – she tosses and turns, finally giving up altogether.

Instead she goes to the books. She is drawn to the fairytales (yes, he has them. She can't believe it). She reads about Snow White and Sleeping Beauty, about Prince Charmings who come running through the forest to kill the evil witch and save the day. There are other books too – _Utopia_ by Thomas More and theology books – but she likes the children's stories the best. Sitting against the wall, she is almost taken back to when her father would read her them while her mother was out, the curtains closed.

But for some reason the books don't help her tonight. Clarke paces up and down. Her body is jittery, and instead of relaxing her the books are keeping her awake. Those ideas and dreams – what became of them in the end? Clarke wants to go back home, but she will be the first to admit that it's not perfect. She struggled to live there, especially after they executed her father. Her father, who only wanted to read some books. Her father, who only wanted to explore a different way of life.

Why was that such a crime?

She can't stand being in this room. She flings the door open, startling poor Links who had been drifting off. She feels a stab of sympathy, along with a flash of annoyance at Bellamy. Didn't he think Links would like some time off?

"Is something wrong Princess?"

She tries not to let the name bother her. Every time one of them uses it, it reminds her of Bellamy. "I'm going for a walk." When Links begins to stand she says, "You can stay here Links. Get some rest. I can go by myself."

At this Links snorts. "My life wouldn't be worth living. Bellamy would kill me if I let you go alone."

She only nods. She had little chance of escaping anyway, when she was stuck in the confines of the village.

The night is cool. She heads in any direction, with Links close beside her. The village is different at night. It's so quiet, with people tucked up in their houses, dying light coming from the windows. Her home is like this at night too, but she doesn't think the people here have a curfew. Here, people have the choice. People can –

The sounds of shrieks pierce the night. Clarke stops, her eyes leaping to Links for answers. He lifts his head in the direction they were heading. "What's going on?"

She remembers later how he didn't look tense; more regretful, his face pulled up. "A baby," he answers shortly. "It's coming early."

"How early?"

"A few weeks."

"But...surely that's okay," she says cautiously. A few weeks was nothing back home; it was a few months when you were worried.

"Our healer left with Bellamy and the others. They are usually needed during hunting parties. We used to have more, but after the war we only have one that's experienced. We've been training some apprentices, but they are nowhere near ready to handle women's problems."

Clarke looks back in the direction of the cries. There is pause before a loud moan fills the air. She can feel the peace of the village shattering, people stirring in their houses. She remembers how there would be cries in the night, waking her up. She would run and leap into her parents' bed, who would try to tell her that everything was okay. But she could see her father's pale face, eyes looking towards the window, while her mother clung to Clarke. You couldn't leave your house at night, not without special permission given by the government. Not even to help someone.

Her feet start towards the sound, and she breaks into a run. But Links is stronger and faster, and he grabs her arm. "What are you doing?"

"I can help." She pulls away from him.

"I need to protect you-"

"Then protect me. Bellamy never said that you told me what to do." She begins to run again, not stopping until she reaches the house. It's not hard to figure out which one it is. The door is open with people coming in and out, all women. One of them is holding some cloth, and another is carrying another jug of water. Even from the door she can see the girl is sweating. Her eyes are closed, her chest heaving up and down.

As soon as the women see her, they begin to yell. One of them, bony with an angular face, makes a gesture towards her. By the look on her face, Clarke can tell that she doesn't want her there.

Links arrives after her, and the women begin to yell at him. He speaks to them in his deep, gruff voice, and attempts to pull her away again.

"I can help Links." She looks at him before her eyes go back to the poor girl. "Tell them that I used to be a d-healer where I come from. If they tell me what's wrong I can save her."

She can see Links is wavering – he knows this isn't what Bellamy would want, but he also doesn't want to take Clarke away when she can help. He carefully translates what Clarke has said, and the women pause. As one, they all turn to the woman who is leaning over the girl. She is looking at Clarke while still dabbing the sweat off her. Her eyes go back down to the girl, and Clarke doesn't need to be told that this is the girl's mother.

With a jerk of the head, she agrees.

Clarke strides into the room, looking over the girl. "Clarke," Links says helplessly. "I can't be in here-"

"You're going to have to be," she says, not even sparing him a glance – going into medic mood, as her mother would say. She puts a hand over her head. The girl's eyelids flutter. She's a little hot, and she's tired, exhausted – but who isn't in labour? "I need you to translate. If you don't want to see turn around."

She doesn't know whether he does. She is utterly focussed on the girl. Her legs are open and Clarke peers down. Immediately she sees the problem. The baby is coming out the wrong way. Usually a baby comes out head first, making it easier for the mother to push the baby out. But this baby was coming out bottom first, which is what they called a "breech" back home. It didn't have to be disastrous, but it was always harder for the mother to push the baby out.

The women in the house already knew this; she could tell by their faces. Was this a death sentence to them?

"Links," she says, "do you have any antiseptic?"

"What?"

"Y'know, something to sterile my hands." She glances at his blank face. "Alcohol?"

His face lights up. "I can get you some." He eagerly heads out of the house.

She looks up at the women, wishing that she could tell them that everything would be alright. Instead she moved forward to the girl. Her eyes are a bright winter blue, and she cannot imagine them being clearer, but at the moment they are clouded over in pain.

She is a doctor – or rather, she was going to be a doctor, before she came here. She prefers the word _healer_ though. It suits. And that's what she is. Her mother always said that doctors weren't made, they were born. The ability to heal, the need to help people, could not be taught.

Without thinking she takes another cloth and dabs it on the girl's head. Her eyes are watching her in a detached way. There's no fear there, which is good. Hopefully the endorphins have taken her to a place, away from the pain. Unfortunately Clarke is going to have to take her out of that very shortly. As she rubs her head she gently hums to her, a soft song she did when patients were nearly gone. She can't tell the girl she is going to be okay, so this is the next best thing.

The change in the room is almost instantaneous. The women pause in their duties, watching her. When Links comes back into the room she catches the mother's eye. They keep contact for a moment before the woman gives a nod of the head, gentle. She doesn't say anything, but her eyes speak as clearly as any words could: _save her._

"Okay," Clarke says, coming back. She dunks her hands into the alcohol, holding it there for a few moments before dunking them in and out. She shakes them a little. "The girl is going to need a push on the next contraction." Links begins to translate rapidly. "This baby can be born naturally, but she's going to need to push a lot harder. If not I-" She swallows. "I'm going to have to try and make more room for the baby to come out." Even as she says it, she feels a little twist in her stomach. But she doesn't know what else to do. She was only a trainee after all, not even old enough for medical school. She remembers reading about a surgeon making an incision to make more room for the baby, but then he had to do something to stop the bleeding, and besides, there's no sort of pain medication here. She's going to have to do this the old fashioned way.

The mother says something to her daughter, and the girl manages to lift herself up. She meets Clarke's eyes and for a second she sees a flash of steel there, and her mouth sets in a line. A dizzying feeling a relief settles over her – perhaps a foreshadowing.

She pushes, letting out a low groan as she does so, the sound of an animal in pain. Unfortunately the baby doesn't move. "She has to push harder," says Clarke. When Links translates it the girl lets out a torrent of rough words. Clarke winces, despite the fact she doesn't know what they mean.

"When the next contraction comes again, push-" Links translates this and when the girl pushes again, Clarke slips her fingers inside. She has stopped feeling queasy at the sight of blood, stopped being sick when someone else vomited – but this is different, and her stomach gives a little lurch. Still, she is a healer. This girl needs help. If she can just widen it a bit for the baby to come out –

A loud voice startles everyone. Thankfully Clarke manages to keep her hands steady. She doesn't turn round as the argument starts – she doesn't need to understand the words to know they are fighting – when she says, in a carefully restrained voice, "You can either leave or stay Bellamy, but don't you dare disturb me."

"You don't know what you're doing-" she hears him growl.

The girl gives another groan. "I know more than you think, but if you want to get your healer I won't stop you." There's a pause and Bellamy barks out an order. But she doesn't focus on that, because another contraction hits. The girl is screaming so loud it hurts Clarke's ears, but the baby moves and she lets out a gasp. The feet slip through into Clarke's waiting hands, and with another push the stomach with the placenta attached, the chest and shoulders, and finally the head.

The little body squirms as Clarke begins to dry him. His crying, the mewing of a cat, is better than any music she's ever heard. "It's a boy," she says. Links translates and the room breaks out in joyful cries. The healer has arrived and checks the baby over, nodding, and gives Clarke a smile that lets her know that she's done right. The boy is handed over to his mother, who is sobbing with a combination of happiness and exhaustion. She takes a moment to look at Clarke, and she doesn't need words to tell her how thankful she is.

Without thinking, she turns to Bellamy. He meets her gaze and they smile at each other. She doesn't know whether they've ever smiled at each other before, but if they have it's different to this one. It's unguarded and pure, all the ill-will against each other forgotten. As his approval washes over her, she realises just how much she wanted his respect.

He actually looks attractive when he smiles.

They leave a few minutes later. Everyone is tired, and the mother needs her peace. "Well done."

She looks at him with a hint of incredulity, but instead of making a joke about him giving her a compliment she says, "Thanks." She has never felt so happy since coming here. "I've never delivered a baby before. It's better than sewing up cuts and holding people's hair back when they throw up-"

"Hang on." Bellamy grabs her by the shoulder, swinging her round. "You told me you knew what you were doing."

"It worked, didn't it?" she asks. It doesn't stop her from practically dancing on the balls of her feet. "I've seen my mother assist with births for years."

"Is that what you did, back at your home? A healer?"

"My mother was the healer," she corrects. "I was going to be..." She trails off. She doesn't want to dampen the mood by getting into a fight.

Clearly neither does Bellamy. He opens the door to the house, changing the subject. "I shouldn't have barged in on you," he admits.

"I'm surprised you let me stay," she says.

He pauses, taking her off-guard. "Sometimes rules are made to be broken. Being a leader is knowing when to break them."

This time it's her turn to freeze. That what her father used to say. _Rules are made to be broken._ Of all the things she would have thought, she never believed that her father and Bellamy would have something in common.

He continues talking, not noticing her expression. "I panicked when I realised you weren't here."

"What, did you think that I had attacked Links and made a run for it?" She forces her tone to be light. Her father's face is a hard one to shake off at the best of times. But at least she brought new life into the world tonight. She knows he would be proud of her.

Bellamy's face breaks out into a little grin. "Poor Links. He looked like he was going to be sick."

She can't help but let out a little giggle. "I don't think he's a natural when it comes to childbirth."

He goes in small cupboard, which reminds her of one she had back home. He comes out with two glasses and a bottle of alcohol. He hands Clarke one of the glasses, a small measure of alcohol in it. "Let's have a toast."

With a grin she raises her own. "To..." She looks back at Bellamy. "Did they name him?"

"They did. They named him after someone they admire very much." She lifts her head, a small smile playing on her face. He raises his glass. "To Bellamy!"

Clarke almost spits out her drink, and he laughs.

* * *

 **V**

* * *

Things get easier for Clarke after that. The majority of the women in the village accept her wholeheartedly after that, nodding and offering her food when she passes. She is learning more words now, and she can have a conversation with most people, if only a basic one. It's amazing, how easily she has been accepted by these people.

It won't stop her from leaving.

She thinks that she should be safe enough now not to be attacked in the middle of the night, but Bellamy still insists that they stay in the same bed. They get into fights about it again, though they are less severe than before.

She has taken to walking through the village during the day. She's not sure why she does it anymore. She knows now her best chance is getting away is when she is out of the village. The walls are heavily guarded, built with strong wood, and in the evening and night she's with Bellamy. Perhaps she does it because Bellamy might believe that she is coming to terms with staying here.

Clarke usually swings back to the house, spending most of the day there. It's during the evenings when she goes out, along with Bellamy, to the meetings. She is picking up enough to follow what is being said. They talk about the harvest. Autumn is approaching and they want to be gathering now, preparing for winter. Another hunting party, set up for later. There's not usually much said apart from food. It's more the company and the atmosphere people come for. She normally doesn't say anything. She stays near the back, watching. She catches Bellamy looking at her now and again, checking she's there.

One day she is heading back to the house when she sees a commotion by the gate. She slows, watching the people arrive. It looks like a hunting party, except she knows for a fact no one has gone out on one (she prides herself on learning these things, knowing the routines. It's best that she knows the schedules around here). Besides, the carts are huge and filled with supplies, not just food but things like chests and furniture, decorated carpets. Clarke eyes them as she walks by.

Then she sees Bellamy. He isn't overseeing everything as he usually does; instead his attention is taken up with a young girl. Well, not that young; in fact she could be Clarke's age, give or take a year. The girl's hair is a dark brown, flowing right down her back. The front bits are tied back, and it takes a moment for Clarke to realise why she is puzzled by this. Only women of higher status are allowed to tie the front bits of her hair back. The reason she's staring is because it's so odd to see a girl this young – a girl her age – to have her hair that way.

The other reason she is staring is because she and Bellamy are arguing. Most people show some sign of respect, even when they disagree with him, speaking politely and obeying his orders. But this girl is acting like he is a piece of dirt on her shoe. It's quite refreshing to find someone who isn't bowing and scraping to him.

Before she realises it she has approached them. Bellamy catches sight of her first, and something flickers in his expression. "Not now," he says. She glowers at his tone.

"I didn't want anything," she snaps. "You don't have to jump to conclusions."

This earns a splutter of laughter from the girl. When she looks at her Clarke sees her eyes are a bright, inquisitive blue, and the peer at her now. "You must be Clarke," she says. She takes a step closer to her. "I hear we're sisters."

She cuts a sharp glance at Bellamy. His hand is raised to his head, almost wearily. "This is my sister, Octavia."

"Your sister?" She look back at Octavia. She can see it now, the matching shape of their eyes and the way they smile; and what's more, the way their faces naturally fall into a determined expression. "I didn't know you had a sister," she blurts out, and then flushes.

Octavia is still smiling though. "My brother isn't one to brag." She looks her up and down as if she's a mare she's thinking of buying. "When my brother told me there was an outsider in the village, I expected a snivelling little child. You're quite different. And you don't kiss up to my brother like everyone else does."

"She should, since I'm _King_ ," Bellamy half-snarls. His tone would have set Clarke's teeth on edge, but Octavia only glances back with a little smile.

"You forget, I knew you when you were an annoying little brat that screamed when he didn't get his way."

"At least _I_ grew out of it."

She rolls her eyes. "Don't start that again Bell. It's all settled now anyway, and everyone's happy." She beams at him. "Lincoln's coming over in a week. Promise you'll be nice to him?"

"I'll be as nice as I want," he says, but it comes out as a grumble under Octavia's cheerful face.

Clarke watches as Octavia droops a little – the only way to describe it. She steps over to him, ducking her head while looking up at him through her eyelashes. She watches him glance to the side, attempting to back away, but with a giant step Octavia is in front of him. She presses up to his chest, a sad look on her face.

"I'm sorry," she says, with a little squeak of a voice that doesn't suit her. "It's just very hard for me. And I've been so tired since I've been away, sent without any family coming with me, to a tribe that was once an enemy. And I have been quite neglected from you since I left, with barely any messages-"

"I wrote to you three times a week," argues Bellamy, but the edge has left his voice and his expression has grown softer.

Octavia doesn't give up. "-and had to make my own way. And the person who helped me, who has been very kind and nothing but a gentleman to me, is someone you won't even be nice to!"

There is a look on Bellamy's face that Clarke can only describe as painful, specifically the kind when a dentist is trying to pull out a tooth. "I know what you're doing, y'know." She doesn't answer, still looking up at him with her glum expression. Her bottom lip has a slight quiver to it. He lets out a sigh, holding his hands up in surrender. "Fine, I'll be nice to him. I'll treat him like a brother. Happy?"

She gives a little squeal before throwing her arms round him. Clarke watches Bellamy close his eyes, but there is a smile on his face. She parts from him, but not before giving him a little kiss on his cheek. "Thanks big brother," she says. She turns back to Clarke. "We'll have a good talk when everything's settled, but it was nice to meet you Clarke." Octavia walks away – almost skipping down the road, where to Clarke has no idea.

She looks back at Bellamy. "Well," she says with a little grin. "Now I know what to do when I want something."

"Don't you start," he says, but his tone isn't harsh. "My sister has had many years of practice in getting her way with me."

"Where's she been anyway? She's not been in the village; I would have seen her by now."

Bellamy shakes his head. "It's a long story." Clarke sinks down a little, but she's surprised when Bellamy says, after a beat, "If you come with me I'll explain."

She hesitates before she steps with him. "Where are we going?"

"To the fields." Her eyes must light up because he gives a little laugh, reading her mind. "You haven't seen those yet, have you?"

She shakes her head. "The guards are very strict about who gets to go down there." The village is bigger than she thought; or rather, it's not part of the village. It's a little separate from the houses, but just as heavily guarded, if not more so. But she understands that; after all, it's about food for the village. It's the priority.

"I don't mind you having a look; it's probably best if you know the layout." She looks at him, but doesn't question him. She's not sure she wants to know what goes on in that part of his head. "We were at war with a tribe a few years back. They are closest neighbours, and we've always had problems with them regarding food and trade. We finally agreed to a truce, but things are still a little shaky. All it could take was one spark for another war to start." His face has twisted. "We lost of a lot of good people. We've only just started to recover.

"The usual thing we do to ally ourselves with another tribe is to join the two of them together. Of course, that means the two royal families joining together, which meant Octavia. So I sent my sister there – who, by the way, complained so much that her voice nearly went. Sod's law, it didn't." Clarke can't help but smile when he says that. "And, in typical Octavia fashion, she doesn't fall in love with her betrothed but with one of his guards."

"Does that mean you're going to war?"

He gives her a little twist of a smile at her expression. "I didn't know you cared so much," he says lightly.

"I'm a healer," she answers bluntly. "I don't like death, no matter what the reason."

He nods at her. "No, we're not going to war. Thankfully the Northern tribe has agreed to allow her to marry the guard – apparently his name is Lincoln, and he comes from a high born family. I think their king couldn't bear the idea of marrying someone who preferred his guard to him – he's very vain." He snorts. "I can't imagine Octavia feeding his ego, can you?"

She lets out a little laugh. Already she knows that Octavia isn't the sort of girl that will sit around applauding your achievements. "So all's well that ends well?"

"For now, no thanks to my sister."

"It's nice though, to have a sister."

"I take it you don't have any siblings then?"

Clarke shakes her head. "Just me." She doesn't tell him that in her society, couples are assigned how many children they can have. Clarke's parents were only allowed to have one. Her father says that one was enough, that he couldn't imagine a more perfect child, but she knows her mother would have loved another child. She thinks her father wouldn't have minded a son either, and it would have been fun to have siblings she could play with. Bellamy may find Octavia annoying, but she could tell by the grin on his face that he adores her. She can see they're close, just by the way they argue.

She stops all of a sudden, her eyes taking in the view. Bellamy follows her gaze. "It's not that amazing," he comments dryly.

But to Clarke it is. She has never seen such wide acres of space before: fields and fields, some of tall grass and others filled with what looks like little clumps. People are picking at some of them, using heavy baskets made of wicker. The colour is so green that it makes Clarke want to crawl into them, hiding in the tall stalks, and take a nap. When she was little she often imagined that when she would wake up, she would find herself in a forest. A little smile plays on her face. A field will do.

All the while she has been gaping, Bellamy has been talking to her. "...and since it's harvest time, anyone we can spare helps gather the food. We're getting the grain and corn this week, and then we'll venture to the orchards a mile south. Technically they're ours too, though we do get some people snatching them, but since we don't – what are you doing?"

He has grabbed her arm to stop her from going to the fields. "I'm going to help." She states it as if it's obvious.

Bellamy gives a look she recognises easily by now. "No you're not."

"This food will feed me too – I can at least help gather it."

But Bellamy is already dragging her back. "Jared," he calls out, "take Princess Clarke back to the house would you?"

She squirms under his arm. "Is it because I'm a prisoner? Is that why you won't let me help?"

"For gods'-" He mutters under his breath before facing her. "If you must, it's the opposite. You're a princess, Clarke. You can't help in the fields."

" _You_ look over everything, and you work. I've seen you."

"I'm the King," he reminds her. "I _have_ to oversee everything."

"So what am I supposed to do? Sit around knitting?"

Bellamy lets out a laugh. "I can't picture you happily sitting about playing with wool. You'd probably knit your hands together," he says. When she doesn't smile he continues. "You can do other stuff – but not everything. Certainly not gathering food."

"Well why don't you let me help out with your healer?" Bellamy closes his eyes and mutters under his breath again. By now she knows exactly what he's saying, and they're not polite words. This is another regular argument they have. "You saw for yourself how good I am."

"You're not a healer Clarke-" He stops when he catches the look on her face. "Our healer has enough apprentices."

"Them!" Clarke has seen what the apprentices can do, and she has a very low opinion of them. "Bellamy, I can help."

"We don't have a need for you-"

"Well when you're stretched you could use me. Can't they?" she asks as Links passes. "You said that I was amazing during the birth."

Links glances at Bellamy's face. "Please don't drag me into this."

"I helped deliver that baby – and women prefer a female with that sort of thing-"

He holds up a hand to silence her. "I will allow you to assist with births, alright? Because if it's not then you won't have anything to do," he warns when she opens her mouth.

She presses her lips together. "I suppose that'll do for now."

Bellamy shoots a glance at Links. "Sometimes I wonder who's in charge here," he mutters. Links laughs.

* * *

 **VI**

* * *

"Do you like horses?"

She starts. Bellamy is leaning against the stall, watching her. She had been peering over the door to look at the horse. He's one of her favourites, a chestnut stallion with a white star on his head and a bit on his left front leg. He has a sweet temper too, not like the bay a few stalls down that puts his ears back and bangs against the door whenever anyone comes towards him.

"I guess," she says unwillingly. They had a fight again earlier this morning over her moving into another room. She's barely been talking to him since.

There is a little grin on his face, and she wonders what she's done now to amuse him. He stands beside her, clicking his tongue to the horse. He turns his great big head towards them, staring for a moment, as if wondering if he can be bothered. He must deem them worthy because he walks over, gently moving his massive head out to them.

Clarke stares. She's never been around animals that much – here they are all over the place. Little dogs scurrying under her feet, cats brushing past her, wild birds fluttering through the forest, all sorts of farm animals. But she's most attracted to the horses, animals she has never seen and almost too terrified to approach. Here people use them without thought, touch them as if it's nothing special. Yet they are treated well. To treat a horse badly was a capital offence here; they were simply too valuable.

Bellamy holds his hand out for the horse to sniff, and then looks at her. "Here," he says. "He won't bite." He places her hand under the chestnut's nose, keeping his own hand underneath.

She isn't looking at Bellamy. She is so excited that she can barely move. Cautiously she lifts a hand to his neck, stroking his soft fur.

"He's a lovely boy, isn't he?" says Bellamy.

"He's beautiful," she breathes.

He's pleased by the comment. "His name's Hosanna," he says. "He's the best horse I've ever had, definitely the bravest. He'll jump anything."

"He's yours?"

"Y-es," says Bellamy. He raises his eyebrows. "I thought you knew. I've got two: Hosanna and Elizabeth." He gestures to the opposite stall, where a beautiful dapple grey is poking her head out. Hosanna is bonny, but Elizabeth is striking.

"The name suits her," she says.

"She was named after Elizabeth I."

"Elizabeth I?"

He stares at her. "Good God, don't you know about her?" She shakes her head. "How good is your history?"

"I was more into the sciences."

She can see he wants to ask her more about it, but maybe he senses she's not in the mood. Instead he says, "If you want I can show you how to ride."

"So I can ride, but not help out in the med bay?" She narrows her eyes at him. "I thought it wasn't safe," she says. She doesn't bother to hide the mocking in her tone.

He grits his teeth, but answers pleasantly enough. "Everyone rides here. You have to learn how to do it." He pats Hosanna on the neck. "It shouldn't take long for you to learn."

"No thanks." She walks away from him, and she thinks she hears him give an irritated sigh as she passes.

* * *

 **VII**

* * *

"Clarke." Octavia bounces over to her in her usual way. "Come to the house with me."

She eyes Octavia. She and the girl actually get on well. Before she marries Lincoln she is living in the same house as her and Bellamy. They often come home from the meeting and have a family meal. Clarke had scoffed at the idea of it, but to her surprise she actually enjoys it. She and Octavia are very like-minded, and poor Bellamy often ends up with his head in his hands.

She also likes the way the two siblings are with each other. They fight a lot, but she's come to realise that their fights don't mean anything. She likes the way Bellamy softens when he's with her, how he usually gives in when she asks for something. Clarke wishes she could get Bellamy to agree so easily.

But she's also learnt that Octavia's impulsive. She jumps in without thinking, and Clarke would rather not be a part of her schemes. Now that Lincoln has gone back to the Northern tribe (for the time being) she is at a loose end, and has plenty of time for games.

"Why?" she asks suspiciously.

Octavia rolls her eyes. "For gods' sake, don't look at me like that. It's nothing bad – well, at least _I_ don't think so." She grins at her somewhat wickedly before grabbing her arm and going towards the house.

They enter the kitchen. For once there are no servants wandering about (this is a custom of the royal family, having servants. Clarke hates it, and by the look on Bellamy's face she can tell he doesn't like it much either, which she doesn't get). Instead an old woman is hunched over the table, chopping up some herbs. It takes a moment before Clarke realises it's the blind woman that performed the blood tie ceremony.

She lifts her face, giving her a warm smile. "Hello Clarke. It's good to see you. Don't roll your eyes at me madam," she says, looking to Octavia.

"I swear, you're telepathic _Babaduo_ ," answers the girl with a smile.

"Please sit down," she says to Clarke. "Get the girl something to drink."

"I'm a princess," argues Octavia, but she goes to the pan of water. They make sure to filter and boil all water before anyone drinks it. It's something Clarke can't manage to forget; as a medic it's second nature.

"True princesses don't believe to be better than others," replies the woman. She turns her milky gaze back to Clarke. "I hear you were trained back in your home to be a healer."

"I was," she says. "If only Bellamy would let me."

She waves a hand in the air. "Bellamy is a stubborn boy."

"Stubborn?" Octavia snorts. "He's a pain in the ass."

"Who gives into you far more than anyone else," the woman adds. "But stubbornness it is a family trait. Not that it came from my side."

Something clicks in Clarke's head. "You're Bellamy's grandmother?"

She smiles. "I am. My name is Cora – I'm afraid in the hustle of that night I never told you my name."

"If you're Octavia and Bellamy's grandmother – aren't you part of the royal family? Why don't you live here?"

Octavia snorts, taking a seat beside Clarke. " _Babaduo_ wouldn't," she says. "Are you sure it's not your family where we get our stubborn streaks from?" she teases, a smile on her face.

Cora returns her smile as if she could see it. Clarke's medical knowledge knows it can't be possible, but she thinks maybe Octavia's right: she does have some telepathy skill. "My husband died in that house. I intend to die there too." She focuses back on Clarke. "I thought you might be interested in learning about the herbs we have here. We use a lot of them for medical reasons."

For some reason she feels embarrassed; it never occurred to her. It should have been the first thing she thought of.

Cora pushes some herbs towards her, as well as a pad of paper and a pencil (again, Clarke is amazed at the level of sophistication here). "Birth control remedies," she says. "I thought you'd best know, in case something happens similar to the night we met." She feels her face redden a little but nods.

"This is Pennyroyal," she says. "Neem. Blue cohosh, which is very effective in a tea form. Queen Anne's Lace – best for an emergency." Clarke nods, scribbling this down. "Ask me if you get confused."

Octavia is peering over Clarke's shoulder. "I don't think she'll forget." She nods at the quick sketches Clarke's done. "You're a good artist."

She feels her face heat up, as it always does. She likes people complimenting her on her medical skills – but her art is private, and it embarrasses her. When people dislike it, she feels like it's a personal attack.

Cora takes plenty of time, going through each and every herb they have. She sketches them and takes notes on what they are. They have herbs for everything: headaches, nausea, period cramps (Cora gives her a knowing look and she feels her face go red again), leaves for toothache and to help people sleep. It's amazing how they've found all of this, and Cora talks with experience. Clarke's had teachers that haven't inspired her as much as Cora has.

"We're done," she says.

"Finally," says Octavia, leaping to her feet. She goes into the living room, carrying a large pile of clothes when she returns. "Now we can have some fun."

"What are these?" she says, standing.

"New clothes." Octavia beams. "Being a member of the royal family has some perks. We get the best clothes made for us – _and_ we get to choose when the new seasonal stuff is ready."

Clarke picks up a dark top, the inside lined with thick black fur. It looks warm, perfect for when winter comes –

Not that she'll be here for winter. She'll be home before then.

"And I think your hair needs a wash." Octavia gives it a little tug.

She feels another flush across her face. "I don't have much time to wash." The truth is, it feels uncomfortable. Most people bathe at the river near them, under a guard. But Clarke feels self-conscious, particularly since most of the guards are male. The most she has done is given herself a quick scrub. Her hair hasn't been washed in over week.

"You can bathe here Clarke," says Octavia gently. "We have a tub. You can put it by the fire, and the servants can keep bringing hot water in to keep it warm."

Even the thought of servants seeing her naked embarrasses her. But it's better than having to do it outside – even if it was boiling hot. At least here less people will see her, and she'll be more comfortable.

She agrees, especially when Octavia explains that Bellamy's in a council meeting that evening. He's the last person she wants to see her naked.

But then... She thinks of being in his room. They both turn away from each other when they change out of politeness, but sometimes he comes in later. She always turns her back on him when they are sharing a bed, but every now and then she glances over when he's changing. She's seen his bare back, quickly turning away as he lowers his trousers. It's not as if...well, it's not like they're not familiar with each other's bodies. They share a _bed._

Still. She doesn't want him to see her naked.

She has to admit, she's glad that Octavia suggested it. The large fire does the trick of keeping her body warm, and the water is boiled and continually poured in to keep the bath hot (Clarke closes her eyes when the servants come in). Her muscles are sore, and the water soothes her body. She even falls asleep for a little bit.

Finally she gets out, grabbing the towel beside the tub before lifting herself out. The servants quickly carry the water and tub out, leaving her alone to dry herself. At first Clarke just stands in front of the fire, letting it get her dry. This is one of the happiest moments she's had since being here. Well, maybe not one of the happiest but... One of the most peaceful moments. A contented moment, something she thought she would never have while being here.

A minute later that is ruined.

She has bent down, drying her legs with the towel, when the door opens. A servant coming in, or Octavia – that would be bad enough.

Bellamy entering is a disaster.

He stares at her in shock for a moment. She is frozen for a second, but quickly leaps into action, yanking to towel to cover the top half of her body.

He swivels round. "Sorry-"

"You could have _knocked_."

"I – it's my room."

"I've told you to give me my own-"

"Well I thought you would be asleep. I didn't know you were having a b-bath." She sees him lean forward a little, and she can hear his voice shaking.

"Are you _laughing?_ "

He lets out a strangled sound. She can tell he's trying to control his laughter. "I'm sorry," he says. "It's just – I – with us being so conscious and careful-"

"Shut up," she snaps. She reaches for her pyjamas, keeping a wary eye on him before dropping the towel and getting changed. "You can turn around now," she tells him as her head comes through the top of the shirt.

He sneaks a peek before turning fully round. There's still a grin on his face which irritates her. "Where've you been anyway?"

"Council meeting," he answers briefly and just like that, his smile dies. "Believe me, I wish I had done something more fun." He goes towards the fire and in the glow she can see how tired he is. "If you don't mind, can we go to bed?"

Clarke knows he simply means that that he doesn't want her to stay up and disturb him. She nods. She's relaxed after the bath, and ready to sleep. She settles on the mattress, keeping her eyes closed as Bellamy changes. She hears the tell-tale sound of him blowing out candles before he crawls into bed.

For some reason she doesn't feel like turning round. Not tonight. It's funny, but she actually feels comfortable right now, even with Bellamy in the room. Who ever thought that would happen?

"Bellamy," she murmurs.

"Yeah?" His voice is gentle, like warm water pouring over her body. In the low light from the fire, she sees him turn his head a little, a small gesture that stirs something in her chest.

Before she can answer she has fallen asleep. When she wakes up, she's forgotten what she was going to say. All she knows is that unlike before, she is facing Bellamy – and he is facing her.

* * *

" _...But then he glanced over Clarke, who was leaning over to breathe in the scent of a bright pink flower, the sun catching the gold strands in her hair, and suddenly he wasn't so sure."_

Kass Morgan, _The 100_

* * *

 **A/N:** Once again, another few things to leave you with:

1) Yay, Octavia's here! I love Octavia Blake, her character has developed so much during the show, and I enjoyed writing her.

2) What did you guys think about the quotes? One thing that was holding me back from posting was that I wanted to find quotes that would suit the chapter, and at least one that would show the relationship between Bellamy and Octavia. Then I thought: why not go to the source itself? And of course I then found the perfect quote to end with too. Do you think they're the right choice for this chapter? I haven't read the books yet, but I'm going on holiday to Florida in November, and so to keep myself busy during the 10 hour flight (yeah, I'm not so keen on flying) I thought I would read them then. Do people recommend them? I'm pretty picky when it comes to books, so I'm not easily won over.

3) Do you guys like the original characters i.e. Links, Cora?

4) I hope you guys didn't find the chapter dull. I know the ending is a bit... I don't no, abrupt, and doesn't really leave you with any questions? You see, I had a plan where I was going to end this chapter, but as I was writing it the chapter was just going to be too long (about seventeen thousand words altogether, maybe longer depending on when I finish/edit) and I want to try and keep the chapters approximately the same length. So I decided to split the two of them. I promise, the next chapter is going to have more storyline development, and the ending of that chapter is...a bit of surprise, I don't know whether anyone will see it coming. I'll try and get it done as soon as I can, but I have a birthday party this weekend and then I'm staying with a cousin in London for a few days, so you may have to be a bit patient!

Once again, thank you so much for the gorgeous reviews that you all left me! I'm really happy that you like the story and I hope that this chapter makes you want to continue! Please let me know what you think – and thank you again for reading!

* * *

 **Hours to make. Seconds to comment.**

 **PLEASE REVIEW!**


	3. Chapter Three

**A/N:** Hello lovely readers! So I'm quite happy with this chapter, which is a surprise for me. I hope everyone likes it too.

Again, I just wanted to say thank you to all of those people that left me gorgeous reviews. I can't tell you how many times I smiled from ear-to-ear when I read your comments. I'll tell you, there are a lot of times when I doubt my writing skills, which usually leads to writers block – but how could I when you are all being so wonderful and so supportive? Seriously **thank you so much**.

 **Summary:** "I am going to offer you a deal. Your companion can be taken back, left close to your city, and go free. He will be unharmed. In return, you have to agree to join our tribe." An AU story where Clarke stumbles upon a Grounder tribe. In return for sparing the life of her boyfriend, she has to go with them as part of their tribe. Reluctantly she agrees, though it doesn't mean that she has to like it, particularly their leader, Bellamy Blake. Bellarke story with some Linctavia.

* * *

 **DISCLAIMER:** **I do NOT own** _ **The 100**_ **or any of the characters; I also do not own any quotes/poetry/lyrics used in this fic.**

* * *

 **Bravery**

* * *

" _No more;  
We're gonna lose everything  
If we believe all the lies;  
You may fall but I swear that I'll help you believe  
You may fall but I swear that I'll help you believe  
I may fall but I swear that I'll help you believe_

 _If you swear you believe in life..."_

Boyce Avenue, _Dare to Believe_

* * *

 **VIII**

* * *

The arrows flies swiftly through the air, hitting the bark of a tree. Clarke would be proud – if it weren't for the fact that she had been aiming for the tree next to it. She scowls as Octavia laughs. "Thanks," she says sarcastically. "Your presence here is really helping."

"I'm not laughing because you're missing. I'm laughing because of the face you pull _when_ you miss."

She lets the bow fall to her side. "I thought you said shooting a bow and arrow was easy."

"I said it was _easier_ ," corrects Octavia, leaning against a tree (it's an oak. She knows oak trees now, and hornbeam trees and silver birches, and ash and maple. She dreamed of trees before, the feel of the bark against her hand and the light filtering from underneath them, but when she pictured them they were all big and green. She had never thought they could all look so different). "But I'm better with a blade."

She agrees with that. She's seen Octavia in practice, when she uses a stick rather than her long sword. She moves faster than the wind, beating most of the guards (poor Links has no chance of avoiding her). Clarke knows that there's no way on earth she would be able to fight like that. Instead she innocently asked Octavia what the easiest form of combat to learn was. Apparently it's shooting.

They had been practicing for a few weeks now. "Best to do it now before winter sets in," she had said as they had gone out the back way of the house.

"Are you sure it's necessary to sneak out?" Clarke had asked.

"It's not like we're leaving the village," Octavia replied. "And yeah, we have to sneak around if we don't want Bell to find out."

"Will he be mad?"

"Probably." She shot Clarke a cheeky grin. "Isn't he always?" Clarke couldn't stop herself from returning her smile.

"So how come your brother's such a stick in the mud when you're fun?" she now asks, going over to retrieve the arrow.

Octavia snorts. "Bellamy's always been like that. Ever since I can remember he's always acted like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders. So of course, I've gone the opposite way." She grins. "Plus it drives Bell mad."

She wants to know how it happened. She knows that Bellamy and Octavia weren't always royalty. Unfortunately she doesn't know how the society works round here. Her mind goes to it more and more often. She wants to ask, but for some reason it feels more like a question for Bellamy.

"Try it again," Octavia says. She attempts to position Clarke in the right way, holding her arms in the proper way. "Maybe you should ask someone like Links or Jared. They're better shooters than I am."

"But they have to listen to Bellamy," Clarke points out. "Whereas you enjoy disobeying him." Octavia doesn't answer, but there's a little bit of a smile on her face. She steps back, signalling that she should try and shoot. Clarke raises her arms a little higher, aiming for the right tree. She narrows her eyes, her body tensing –

Something whizzes past her ear. She ducks down before she can think, hitting the ground hard. She hears Octavia pull out her blade – Octavia won't fall to the floor. She turns her head at the same time as Octavia cries out, "Bastard."

Bellamy grins. Today is unseasonably warm, one of the last days before winter arrives, and he's wearing a t-shirt, his muscles showing. "I was just showing you how it was done," he says.

Clarke looks at the tree she had been aiming at. Instead of an arrow, a knife is wedged into the bark. She frowns, irritated that Bellamy has done something that she still can't.

He's still got that smile on his face when he approaches her. "I thought you would have made more progress by now."

She blinks and Octavia cries, "You _knew?_ "

There is a spark in his eyes as he replies. "When I couldn't find either of you I was understandably anxious – I don't want to think what the two of you can get up to without any supervision-"

"We don't need supervision!" replies Octavia hotly.

"-so I went looking for you. I've been watching the two of you for a little while now."

"Creep." Octavia crosses her arms, a scowl on her face. She's clearly ruffled by the fact that Bellamy's been sneaking up on them. She likes to think that she can get one over on Bellamy.

"I just thought I would let you two handle it on your own."

"So you're not mad?" Clarke asks. She keeps an eye on his face, waiting for it to change. "You don't want me to stop?"

"No." He lifts his shoulders. "I have no problem with you learning how to defend yourself. Though you've got some way to go yet," he says. He's still smiling, and it's then Clarke realises what's different about him: he looks young. Well, not young, just his age. Usually Bellamy goes around with a weary expression on his face and tired eyes, aged a decade by the time he goes to bed. Today he has the brightness of a little boy.

"Well, who knew that you actually have a funny bone," mutters Octavia.

"At least I have actual skill when it comes to teaching someone how to shoot a bow and arrow," he teases back. He makes a grab for Octavia, who yelps and dodges.

It's a few days until it's brought up again. Clarke is in the kitchen, ignoring the hustle and bustle of servants while they work, sorting through her herbs. Cora gives them her, and she's begun to give her details on where to find them. "Why are you telling me all this?" she had asked the last time they had met.

"I'm old, child," she answered frankly. "I won't be around forever. Someone needs to take over."

She hadn't known what to say to that. She found the thought of Cora dying curiously painful, enough to make her limbs stiff, just like when her father had died. Even now, sitting at the table, she almost wants to double over at the thought. It shouldn't matter. Hasn't her plan always been to run? To leave these people and never return? She would never see them again. That was as good as dead, and yet her chest aches at the thought of it.

The door opens and she hears Bellamy enter (she now knows the sound of his boots, the way his feet hit the wood. She never mistakes anyone else for him). At first she ignores him, for no reason at all except that she's absorbed in what she's doing. She feels him slide opposite her. "You busy?" he asks.

"Why?" she asks. Again, she's always cautious about accepting any invitation Bellamy offers. The Blakes enjoy the thrill, and they don't care how dangerous or terrifying it can be.

He shrugs, attempting to be casual, but she can see there's something in his face. "I was just wondering whether you would be interested in coming with."

"Where are you going?"

" _Babaduo_ wants me to go on a supply trip. Usually she would go with me but she's feeling ill-"

"Is she alright?" She can feel her heart beating faster. Had what Cora said to her about not being around a warning?

Bellamy smiles. "When _Babaduo_ says that, what she really means is that she can't be bothered. If she's ill she doesn't tell anyone which, believe me, irritates the hell out of us. Anyway, she suggested that you come with me, since she's told you all the places where they grow. And I thought you could use the room to practice your shooting." He shrugs again, but this time he can't keep the smile off his face. "It's up to you," he calls, heading for the door.

Well. What is she supposed to do?

In about ten seconds she is wearing a thick jacket and boots. Bellamy is still grinning, which gets wider when he sees her. She supposes she must look eager. After all, this is what she's wanted all along. Really she should be getting food together, ready in case there's a chance for her to run. But she doesn't have the time, and she doesn't want Bellamy to get impatient and scrap and the idea.

He is leaning against Elizabeth, who is nuzzling his shoulder. "I can ride too?"

" _We_ can ride," he corrects. "You don't know how to ride, and you've never done it before."

"It's not hard, is it?"

"Says a person who has never ridden before. If you'll let me, I can teach you – later. For now you'll have to ride with me." Before she can process this she is lifted into the saddle. It feels strange being on a horse, an animal that moves without her command. Bellamy holds onto the reins as he swings up, placing himself in front of her. "You'd better hold on tight to me," he tells her. "You're meant to grip with your legs, but you won't be used to it yet."

He nods to the guard and they begin to open the gates. "Ready?"

"Yes." She's ready. She's been ready since she's saw Elizabeth ducking her pretty head out of the stall door.

She feels him nudge and Elizabeth begins to walk, but only for a second before she begins to trot. Clarke bounces uncomfortably for a few moments before he pushes her again. This is another gear. Elizabeth seems to zoom ahead at super speed, and it's like she's being repeatedly shot from a rocket every time she bounces. She can't see – all she can see is Bellamy's back – so she closes her eyes. It's scary not being in control, but after a few minutes the fear recedes. Instead a stronger, happier feeling rises within her. She wants to laugh, because her heart feels like it's leaping from within her chest.

She thinks they can't go any faster before she feels him kick her again. This time when Elizabeth picks up speed she feels all her breath leave her body, and she can't breathe. But she does. She does and her heart flies from her chest. She must be laughing because he glances behind him. "Alright?" he calls.

She can only nod. The truth is she's more than alright. This is what it's like to fly. This is what it's like to love. This is what it's like to be _alive_.

All too soon Bellamy slows her, until they are walking. He pats her on the neck while looking behind him. Her expression must betray her joy because he grins. "Did you enjoy that, Princess?"

"That was amazing," she breathes honestly. "My legs feel like they're trembling."

"I knew you would like to ride." He slides off the seat, and with reluctant she comes off too, with his steady arms to catch her.

She glances back at the beautiful mare. "What will she do?"

He is already taking off her saddle and bridle. She looks even prettier without these contraptions on her. "I've parked us near a field. She'll go off and have a little bit of peace there."

"But won't she run off?" Clarke can picture her running through the forest, mane and tail blowing back. She deserves to be free, to blaze through the wild all her life, a flame that can never be flickered out.

"No," he says. "She likes being with us. She wouldn't want to leave." He's looking at her when she says this. She glances away from him, not missing the double meaning in his words.

"So," she says, changing the subject. "Are you going to teach me how to shoot then or what?" She reaches behind her back, pulling out her bow and an arrow.

Bellamy's hand stills her. "I thought you might be better using this instead."

She doesn't look at his face. Instead all she sees is a smooth hand-made bow. It's been expertly made, sanded down and smooth. The string is tighter than the one she had before, and the arrows are finely crafted too. Clarke runs her hands down them, and that's when she feels the mark. She sees something carved into the wood, but it's too small for her to make out. "What's this?" she asks, pointing it out to him.

He takes one of them, fingering it. "It's our family crest."

She feels a little jolt when he says _our_. "A family crest?"

"Every family has one, particularly the high standing ones. Like an animal or a tree, a plant or fruit."

"What's yours?" she can't help but ask.

"A wolf," he answers. "A lone wolf, looking off into the distance. I've been able to stitch and engrave it since I was little." He glances at her with something in his eyes that she can't read; but instead of saying anything, he just begins teaching her.

First he advises her to try and get used to the new bow. It takes time. In fact she loses one of the lovely arrows since it shoots high in the air, soaring into the distance. She also notices that Bellamy doesn't stand in front of her – in fact he's a few steps behind. She wishes she could feel offended, except she truly isn't good at this.

"This isn't fair," she says when she misses the tree, hitting the one behind it. At least it sticks into the bark.

"It can be hard for some people."

She narrows her gaze. "It never takes _me_ this long to learn something." And it's true. She took to being a heal-to being a doctor like a swift takes to flight. School, tests, friends – nothing had been hard for her. The only other things that have been this hard are learning to adapt here and watching her father die.

She sees Bellamy smirk. "Are you sure you're not related to us? Either that or Octavia and I must be rubbing off on you, because you've certainly got some of the Blake arrogance."

"It's not arrogance – just the truth." She's half-teasing though, and she knows he can sense it. "I thought you were meant to be helping me?"

"We're both helping each other. After this you're going to help me find these herbs."

"Well, right now it's my turn." She holds out the bow and Bellamy flinches. "I'm not that bad!"

"Sure you're not." He comes towards her, circling behind her before going to her arm. "You're left handed?"

"Yeah."

He pauses for a moment, and she knows he's trying to mirror what he would do. "Okay, show me your position." Obediently she raises her arms. She doesn't miss how he winces a little bit. "You need to lower this arm a little bit." Clarke feels her arm stretch when she does.

"It feels uncomfortable."

"It won't the more you do it. Now, use your mouth as an anchor."

"My mouth as a what?"

He smirks. "Just pull the bow back until it's aligned with your mouth." Once again she obeys. "You're aiming for the middle tree, right?"

"Yes."

"Just checking." She isn't looking at him – she refuses to take her eyes off that tree – but she can practically sense his smile. "Release the bow swiftly. You need to be confident."

She's not confident at all. But she forces herself to close her eyes and breathe deep, calming herself. Without her sight, all she can feel is the bow in her hands and Bellamy's touch on her shoulder.

She lets go, and opens her eyes just in time to see the arrow hit right into the bark of the tree. The right tree. The one she had been aiming for.

Far from congratulating her, Bellamy shoves her. " _Never_ shoot with your eyes closed."

"It worked, didn't it?"

"Only because I was here."

Feeling cocky, she draws another bow. "I'm aiming for the left tree now." She carefully follows the checklist in her head, and this time she keeps her eyes open. Once again, the arrow hits the right place.

When she turns back in triumph Bellamy is smiling faintly. "Nice work Princess. You may have just got it."

"I told you I wasn't bad at anything." When he rolls his eyes, she feels something rise in her chest. "Thanks for your help though."

"Don't thank me yet." He goes to the trees, pulling out the arrows. "You're going to have to help me find these herbs first."

By the time they begin to head back, the sun is starting to set. She's exhausted and Bellamy looks much the same, but despite that she's feeling cheerful. When Bellamy saddles Elizabeth again she finds her eyes roaming behind them. The trees here are bunched together, a perfect place to run for. If she could just get over there...

"Ready to go?" Bellamy glances across to her. She looks back at him and she thinks he knows what is going through her head. He reaches, his hand on her wrist. He doesn't say anything but the meaning is clear.

She gets on the horse and they head back.

* * *

 **IX**

* * *

Harvest time is winding down, and oddly enough Bellamy is busier than ever. Clarke is often asleep when he gets in, only waking up briefly to acknowledge that he's come back.

One night when he comes in she is awake. She's not in bed, but leaning against the bookshelf. There's a book in her hands, but it's not open. "Clarke?"

She jerks her head up. Bellamy is staring at her, and by the way he's looking at her she knows he's been trying to get her attention for a while. His eyebrows are together. "You okay?"

She manages to nod. "I'm fine."

He eyes her as he walks towards the wardrobe. He lifts his own shirt off and right now she's so tired she doesn't force herself to look away. His skin looks smooth, but she can see a few welts just off his shoulder. Scars. She wonders if he got them from the war.

He keeps his back to her as he changes. "You're usually asleep when I come in."

"Well now I'm not."

Half-turning, he shoots her a glance. "No need to snap Princess," he comments lightly. He throws his nightshirt on as he comes towards her. She's not sure how she feels when he kneels in front of her. She knows she didn't expect him to. "Want to talk about it?"

"Talk about what?"

"Whatever it is that's keeping you up."

"No thanks."

She looks down at the book in her hands. She hears him sigh, expects him to go to bed. He must be knackered. Instead he shifts, matching her posture.

Their shoulders brush against each other. They must touch a hundred times a day, but this is different. This is accidental, and for some unknown reason it feels much more...electric.

"I see you've made your way through the books." He doesn't take it from her, simply running his hand down the page. "Do you like the fairytales?"

"My father-" Her throat contracts with that word, so unfamiliar to her. It's not just the fact that she doesn't like to mention her father; it's the simple fact that she doesn't talk about her family here. She doesn't mention her mother either, but that's easier to think about. She and her mother weren't on the best of terms when she left, and besides, there's always a chance that she'll see Abby again. Her father is lost to her forever, at least in this life.

She clears her throat. "My father used to have some. He would read them to me when I was little, even when I got older."

"I thought they were forbidden where you live."

She glances at him. "How do you know?"

"You're not the only one who is from there," he says, though she knows that. There are a few people who are from cities, but unlike her they wanted to leave. They are the hardest for her to get to know, because they are suspicious of her. They don't understand why she wants to return. "They said that these types of books are forbidden."

"They are."

"So your father was breaking the law."

"Yes," she admits. She wonders if he knows what happens to people who break the rules in the cities. But she doesn't want to see the look of pity in Bellamy's eyes. She puts her hands on the paper of the book. "These stories are different than the others, and the ones that I read back at home. The women in here are strong." She pulls out a smile from somewhere deep inside her, a place that she would once have vowed no longer existed. "Snow White is amazing. I love how she hits her future husband over the head with a rock."

He returns her grin. "It's different," he agrees. "Is their story your favourite?"

The book is filled with a number of stories, and she flicks through the pages. "I think I prefer the one about their daughter. How she grows up without them, and then finds them again-"

"But they're all under a wicked spell," he joins in. "And she breaks through to them-"

"-but she still has problems trusting people, even her parents," Clarke interrupts. "And then she meets Captain Hook and though she doesn't want to-"

"-she falls in love with him." He gently takes the book from her, going towards the end of the book. There is a large picture towards the end, of a woman with long blonde hair and a man with short dark hair and an unshaven chin. They are staring each other without smiles, as if they are trying to puzzle their feelings out. "These are my favourites too," he admits.

For a few moments the two of them stare at the picture of a blonde girl and a dark haired man looking at each other.

"You don't read anything else?" He leans back, turning his face up to the ceiling as if he's trying to look at the books behind him. "You're welcome to read any of them."

"Thank you."

He glances at her. "Don't say it like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you're mad about it. I'm not trying to lord over the fact..."

"The fact you're in charge of me." Her tone is bitter, and she finds she can't look at him. She takes a deep breath, finding it painful. She already knows Bellamy is readying his arguments, but finds that she's unwilling to join in. "I don't want to fight Bellamy," she says, lifting her head. His face is tense, his own eyes distrustful. "Not tonight."

She still thinks he's going to snap back a reply, but his voice is uncharacteristically warm when he speaks. "There a plenty of books about history here. It sounds like you need to learn about it."

Clarke hears the teasing in his voice and feels her back relax. "They seem a bit heavy going," she says.

He reaches his long arms up, pulling a few books down. Somehow he manages to keep others from toppling on them. "What about poetry?"

"I don't know what it is."

He jerks his head round so fast it looks almost painful. "You've – you don't know what poetry is?"

She feels her cheeks redden at his tone. "I'm a healer," she says defensively. "Besides, I don't think we have it back home. I've never heard of it." She glances over at a page, the lines dotted on the page. "Seems pointless."

"What's the point in fairytales?" he retorts. "If you don't know what it is, then you can't judge until you've read some." He picks up a thin book, flicking through the worn pages. He clears his throat, and Clarke thinks that maybe he's embarrassed. This comes as a surprise to her, since he speaks so well in front of a crowd. "Close your eyes."

"You're being stupid-"

"Just do it Clarke, okay? It helps you picture it."

She sighs at his stubborn face, but does what he says. She hears him clear his throat some more before he begins to speak.

"' _Love's time's beggar, but even a single hour,  
bright as a dropped coin, makes love rich.  
We find an hour together, spend it not on flowers  
or wine, but the whole of the summer sky and a grass ditch.'"_

Clarke listens. There's something about the words, how they differ from storytelling – and yet they are similar too, but she can't figure out how. These words flow, and someone she knows they have been chosen carefully, that this hasn't been written on a whim.

"' _For thousands of seconds we kiss; your hair  
like treasure on the ground; the Midas light  
turning your limbs to gold. Time slows, for here  
we are millionaires, backhanding the night...'"_

Eyes still closed, she feels Bellamy tuck an arm round her back. Very slowly he pulls her down onto his lap, her head cradled comfortably there. If she wasn't so keen on listening, she would protest. But the words have some sort of magic in them. _It's a spell_ , she thinks. _Whoever wrote this must have been a magician._

"' _...so nothing dark will end our shining hour,  
no jewel hold a candle to the cuckoo spit  
hung from the blade of grass at your ear,  
no chandelier or spotlight see you better lit_

"' _than here. Now. Time hates love, wants love poor,  
but love spins gold, gold, gold from straw.'"_

The words seem to echo through the room, like the cry of an owl or the scream of a child. It's like being dropped down from heaven on a cloud, or washed on shore to a warm beach. She doesn't speak for a minute, hoping to keep the words in the air.

"Who wrote that?" she finally asks.

"Carol Ann Duffy," he answers. "She was an amazing poet. At one time the royal family of England had her as poet laureate. That means that whenever there was a state funeral or a royal occasion, something like that, then she was the one they would ask to write a poem."

"What was it called?"

" _Hour_ ," he answers.

"Did she write more?"

"Yes." His tone makes her open her eyes, and she can see his bright face. He seems animated, and she realises he enjoys it too. He looks down at her. "There are other good poets too."

"Not as good as her."

Well, she's always known Bellamy likes a challenge. He reads out more poems: _The Owl and The Pussy Cat_ , W.E. Henley's _Invictus_ , some by Emily Bronte and E.E. Cummings, and she laughs at the speed that he manages to read T.S Eliot's _Macavity: The Mystery Cat_. Rhymes and sonnets and words dance round her head, and everything seems to fill with colour. For the first time, perhaps ever, it feels like the world has opened up for her. It feels like she can do anything; like she's invincible.

The poetry relaxes her more than she ever thought possible, and her eyes grow heavy. By now they have made it onto the bed, and she's lying sideways, facing him. He tries to get her to close her eyes when he reads them aloud, so she can picture it in her head.

"Clarke?" It seems from a great distance away that she hears him murmur her name. It's an even greater struggle for her to speak.

"I'm awake," she manages to get out.

His voice is louder, very close to her now. "Damn," he says, and she can easily see his smile. Time seems to pass, she thinks, though she's not sure, because sleep has started to carry her away. She's drifting down, being taken away by unconsciousness so it's hard to say what's real or what's not. So she would never be able to say for certain whether she felt his touch on her forehead, as soft as falling leaves. "Goodnight Princess."

When she wakes up, she swears it was just a dream.

* * *

 **X**

* * *

Right in the middle of autumn there is a feast. There is usually a feast at this time, the last one before the winter, but this one is different. The tribe that Octavia is marrying into, Lincoln's tribe, has been invited.

"It's a wedding feast," Bellamy explains over dinner.

He is about to say more, but Octavia snorts at this. "Our wedding isn't until next summer," she says. "This wedding feast is way too early. Now if we could have our wedding say, next week-"

"Summer will be fine," Bellamy says, and Clarke can't hide her laugh. "You know what they say about a wedding in winter."

"No," Clarke joins in, reaching for her wine glass. "What do they say?"

"A wedding in winter will lead to a life as barren as the season – which basically means either a loveless marriage or one without children."

Octavia rolls her eyes. "Old wives tales."

"Even so."

Clarke can see Bellamy doesn't like the idea of Octavia getting married. He still dotes on his little sister, and she knows he's relieved that she and her new husband will live in their village, even if it was because the King from the other village put his foot down. Bellamy and Octavia did not argue over this at all, only happy that they would remain together.

Clarke is more interested in something else. "Isn't this the tribe we were at war with not so long ago?"

She watches Bellamy frown, but not before she catches the unexpected flash in his eyes. "Yes."

"It's all over now," Octavia says hastily. "Everyone's happy, right Bell?"

"Hopefully. Don't look at me like that O. You know I'm not the only one."

"Everything is going to go to plan!" Clarke has never seen Octavia lose it. Eyes flashing, she glowers at his big brother. "I love him Bell! I don't want anything to mess it up. Please, be on your best behaviour-"

"O, relax!" He reaches over and grabs her hand. "Everything will be fine, okay? I'll behave impeccably."

"You're not certain though, are you?" Clarke asks once they're in the bedroom together.

Bellamy sighs as he falls onto the mattress, staring up at the ceiling. "Tensions are running high at the moment. People of the Northern tribe are annoyed that Octavia snubbed their king. Not everyone, but enough to make this a bit more stressful than I would like."

"Because Octavia's marrying Lincoln?"

"Not only because Octavia chose to marry a guard," he says, casting a look over at her. "Because Lincoln's family is one of high standing. It worries their royal family that he might gain support and take them over. And you can't really blame them. It's why they were so insistent that Octavia and Lincoln live here."

"Well, that's alright, considering that's what you wanted."

"It is." Bellamy allows himself a smile, the kind Clarke's only seen every so often on his face.

She puts her cheek onto the pillow. "You're a good big brother."

He is surprised; she can tell by the way his eyes fly to her face. "Thank you," he says. Gently he places his head on the pillow, his body turned in her direction.

They fall asleep facing each other.

* * *

The feast starts in the afternoon, but to Clarke's surprise she is woken up early. Bellamy is already gone – he said last night that he would have to make sure everything was ready – but she is the one that is given a bath, that is forced to scrub under her nails (not to mention have them trimmed), hot water poured over her hair again and again. Then they put some cream over her skin that becomes hard in three minutes, yet she is forced to leave it on for a good hour.

Cora comes to her rescue. "I can't take much more of this," Clarke says as the woman walks in with her usual informality.

She smiles. "We've all had to do it. Back in my day, I used to have to put seaweed over my eyes every night before I went to bed, because they believed that it made you look younger. Never mind the fact it made my eyelids go green." It gets a laugh from Clarke, which is what Cora intended all along. And at least she only had to do this when the members of the other tribe came to visit. If she had to do this every day she would go crazy.

Cora settles opposite her with uncanny accuracy. "It should probably ready now anyway." Reaching over, she dips a cloth in the warm water and wipes away the layer of brown cream (they call it cream; Clarke calls it mud) off her arm. It takes a few tries before it comes clear. It reveals a hint of pink skin. Once her entire arm is clear she touches it. "It's so smooth," she says in wonder.

Cora smiles. "The only girl that will rival you in your looks will be Octavia, and only because she is rosy with new love."

She, Cora and Octavia all eat together for lunch, though Octavia can only manage a few bites she's so nervous. "It's only Lincoln," Clarke comments. "You're not being murdered."

Octavia glowers at her, but her normal wit seems to have evaporated. She hasn't seen Lincoln in nearly a month, and she is nervous. Cora may comment on Octavia's beauty, but she can't see the pale shade of her face. For a few minutes Clarke wonders if love is like that: where you are so excited about seeing the other person that you can barely focus. She thinks of Finn, but her mind is so muddled that she just gets vague flashes of his smile and a feeling of irritation welling inside her. She pushes her own plate away.

An hour before they are set to arrival, Bellamy returns. "You're late," she hears Octavia call as he pounds up the stairs, and Clarke has to hide a smile (Octavia must be feeling okay if she is up to teasing her brother).

"I know!" Bellamy yells back as he opens the door. He rolls his eyes at Clarke as he slams the door closed. "Trust my sister to point out the bleeding obvious."

The tub has been left for Bellamy to wash, and he strips and dives into the water in five seconds. Clarke hurriedly averts her gaze, since he's been so obvious about his nakedness. She focuses her hair, which has just been finished. The servants combed it through with some transparent goo (there is no other word for it). Clarke hadn't wanted to put it on her hair, but she reminded herself about the brown mud that left her skin clear, and so she gritted her teeth and allowed it. The result is that it smoothes her usually curly hair, making it wavy instead. She can't stop gazing at her reflection in the mirror, amazed at the transformation.

In her reflection she sees Bellamy get out. She doesn't turn away since he won't be able to tell she's watching him. Her eyes are on his face and thankfully he pulls a towel over his lower half. She is concentrating on stealing a glance at him that she almost misses the fact that he is looking at her too.

She quickly ducks her face away.

The dress that has been given to her is a pale powder blue that glitters slightly when the weak sun hits it. It is definitely a winter dress, since it has long sleeves and grey fur round the collar. Even the material on the inside has a lining of fur, and they're as comfortable as pyjamas.

The only problem is that the buttons on the back are impossible to do up. She manages the lower ones, but it takes so long for her to do them up that she feels Bellamy come up behind her. "Let me," he says, his voice smooth and softer than it's been since he came in. She feels his fingers against her bare skin, sending sparks through her spine.

She tries to remember what a conversation is. "You go out of your way to impress this other tribe, don't you?" she asks, staring hard into the wood of the dressing table.

"It's what we always do," he responds. "It's like a competition. Everyone will be wearing their best, and I don't envy any child that misbehaves – their parents will skin them alive." Once the buttons are done up he goes back to the wardrobe, pulling out a shirt. His fancy clothes are made out of a dark blue instead, and Clarke must admit that will suit Bellamy more than the colour of her dress.

A sudden fear seizes Clarke, like cold water. "What do I do?" she asks.

Putting on his shirt he turns to her. "You don't need to worry. Just follow my lead. I'll be the one talking with the leaders."

"So what does happen?" she demands. "I don't want to start another war by sitting in the wrong chair."

He laughs. "We're not that severe. All that's going to happen is that we're going to greet them, and I'll talk to them before the feast. You can wander round if you want – as long as by the time the feast begins you're sitting next to me."

She is calmed when he tells her that. It sounds so easy for her. "Will it be hard for you?"

"I just have to keep from strangling that vain king of theirs." A flicker of concern must pass across her face because he reassures her. "I'll be fine. This is a lot easier than meeting right after the war." She looks away, trying to reassure herself. It's then that he adds, "Links will be looking after you."

He says it fast and short, as if hoping she'll ignore it. But she has heard, and she whirls round. "Not again! Why?"

"Why do you think?" he says exasperatedly. "You're a member of the royal family now. If there's an attack, they'll either go for me, Octavia or you. Perhaps _Babaduo_ , I doubt it – there's no honour killing an old blind woman. Even so, you all have to be guarded. Since Lincoln will protect Octavia, I've assigned Links to make sure you're safe."

"But I can shoot now."

"You can shoot a tree," he amends. "Do I need to remind you that you can't hit a moving target yet?"

The truth of the statement stings and Clarke looks away. "It's not fair."

She hears him sigh before she feels his put his hands on her shoulders. She feels like a little girl when Bellamy has to get her to look at him. "It's just for a day," he tells her. "One day and then everything goes back to normal. Only for an evening really, and then you can do what you like." He voice adopts a pleading layer to it. "I need to try and keep the peace today. I'm going to have to keep my temper with everyone. Don't make it so I have to fight you too."

She looks at his face and feels her stomach twist guiltily. "Fine," she mumbles. "But it's not going to happen again, okay?"

"Heaven forbid," he says, but he smiles at her.

* * *

Clarke doesn't realise how nervous she is until they arrive. She watches the people from the Northern tribe pile in, a number of guards surrounding the royal family. There's only one member of theirs, the man that Octavia was meant to marry.

She can honestly say that Octavia made the right choice. He walks daintily, like he's worried about getting his boots muddy (small hope of that, considering the fact that winter is coming and everywhere is muddy and damp). His hair is blonde like hers, but it's so light it could verge on white. He greets Bellamy well enough, and the two of them seem to get on, but Clarke now knows the language well enough to know he is talking too much about how terrible the weather is and how his clothes will be ruined. Clarke catches both Octavia's and Bellamy's eyes, and though they are wearing polite smiles she can see they are astounded by his complaints and careful way he walks.

"Do you see now why I couldn't marry him?" Octavia mutters when she and Clarke get a moment alone in the hall. It is filled to the brim with all the high members of the tribes. Outside the regular people are milling around, warm food and tea being handed out to fight the bitter chill of the day.

"I'm amazed that you managed to be so graceful in denying him."

The girl shoots Clarke an amused glance. "I jilted him for a member of his guard. I wouldn't call it graceful."

Clarke makes sure her voice is quiet when she speaks. "I mean by not shoving him into a ditch."

Octavia chokes down a laugh. "Whatever you do," she says, forcing her face to stay straight, "don't say that in front of my brother." They both glance at Bellamy, who is attempting a conversation with the Northern tribe's king and another woman.

"Who's that with them?"

"One of the members of his council," explains Octavia. "Niala. She's someone that I actually like. I think she's the one that actually organises everything."

Clarke pays attention to Bellamy. She can see he is quelled by the presence of Niala. In fact... "Bellamy looks happy."

There's a hint of smugness of Octavia's face when she answers, a little smile on her face. "He's been in a good mood since last night. Haven't you noticed?"

The truth is that she has noticed. It's not like he's been brimming with joy, but he's less snappy and irritated than normal, and he doesn't seem to want to boss her about so much. "Yeah, I have," she says. "What's put him in a good mood? It can't be this feast – it's stressed him out too much."

"It's you," she bursts out. Clarke blinks. "You're the one that's put him in such a good mood."

" _Me?_ What have I done?"

"Last night, when we were talking about the war between the two tribes. When you asked about it, you said _we_ instead of _you._ " Octavia's grin widens as Clarke blinks again.

"I – well – I didn't mean-"

She holds her hands up. "I'm not giving my opinion. I just answered your question." There was the sound of a gong going, and Octavia jumps to attention. "That's the warning for the beginning of the feast. We have ten minutes. I'd better go find Lincoln – he's playing a game with some of the guards and children outside." Octavia rolls her eyes. "Pray for me Clarke. I'm marrying a child."

Clarke smiles absent-mindedly as Octavia pushes her way outside. Is that true, that she's the one that's made Bellamy so happy? Simply by giving a sign that she felt a part of them? Did she? These days she doesn't think about running. It's not because she's given up; it's because she simply hasn't had the time. There's been so much to do: three babies had been born this week, and Bellamy has been true to his word and allowed her to help. Two of the three babies had been born in the middle of the night, and she had finally gotten some sleep just as dawn was rising. Couple that with finding time to practice her shooting and making sure the stores have enough herbs, and visiting Cora, and mucking around with Octavia –

She feels her breath catch in her throat. Has she made a life here?

When did that happen?

"Princess Clarke, is it?" She spins round to meet the King of the Northern tribe. She's heard that his name is Clovis (what a terrible name, but it suits him).

Her mind scrambles for something to say – no, for the right thing to say. "It is," she says. She nods her head to him, because she's not sure what the proper greeting is here – there's no bowing, yet seldom people shake hands either. People hug here. They're very touchy-feely. She would never have believed that before. "Your Grace," she adds, remembering this is what Bellamy is often called. She looks at Clovis' fancy clothes, his careful styling of blonde hair, and is sincerely glad she was caught by Bellamy's tribe.

She catches herself out again. She never thought she would think that either.

"I'm honoured to meet you," he says. "I'm sorry that I have not had the chance before. But I'm glad that I have now." He bends down and presses a kiss on her hand. "Very glad," he adds.

She feels her face heating up. He's flirting with her, she can tell by the way he's looking at her, how his hand holds onto hers for just a bit longer than necessary. The thought is so – she is torn between laughing out loud and throwing up. Clarke manages a smile and gently tugs her hand away.

"I hear your tribe is further north from here," she says, trying to steer the conversation. She glances across to the back of the room, where the high table is. Trust that Bellamy has been hovering round there, and now he's gone. _Shit._

"Yes, it is. I believe you would like it..." She tries to calm herself as he talks. She glances behind her and sees Links standing a few feet away. She is relieved when he gives a nod of the head, acknowledging that he can see her. She gives him a smile, wide from relief, before focusing back on Clovis.

"I believe this is only the third time you've met Bellamy," Clarke says, because there's only so long she can stand listening to him go on about how grand his house is, how much prettier and decorative it is, how many lovely things they have. Octavia's right, he _is_ vain. She takes a quick glance at his hands – soft hands, gentle hands, unused to work.

"Yes. We both became the leaders after the war. My father, the previous king, had been killed in the final battle. I believe yours had as well."

"Yes, he was." Clarke scrambles to remember something about the previous king, anything that Bellamy or Octavia have mentioned.

"Of course I was very surprised that Bellamy was the one that became king. Y'know, his family being so low in status." Clovis gives a laugh, but she can hear the malice in his voice, sees his eyes glitter a little. She feels herself bristle. "I'm surprised they couldn't get a dog to be king. I'm sure there was one higher than Bellamy's family."

He's acting like he's joking. If it was one of Bellamy's friends, one of the guards, it would be; Bellamy and Octavia would be the first ones to laugh. But not from him, from this stupid, arrogant, vain – he's insulting Bellamy and Octavia's family, Cora's family. He's acting like Bellamy isn't fit to lick his boots. She thinks of him, of Bellamy, getting up early every morning and staying up late, helping everyone no matter how small the task, picking up small children and giving out food to all the people of the village, no matter how low they are in status. She looks at this king and knows he would hide in his house if there was ever a war; Bellamy would be the first one out, leading the charge.

"I suppose they couldn't find a peacock to be your ruler." She forces her voice to be light, but there is nothing difficult about her smile. She sees a spark in his eyes, a flash, and she knows she hit the mark. "If you will excuse me-"

"Wait." He grabs her arm. Behind her she can feel Links stand to attention and make his way towards him. She holds a hand up behind her back, a sign for him to halt. She's not going to start another war over a few insults, though she would love to watch this smug king be shoved into the mud. He would probably cry over dirtying his blonde curls.

Clovis leans in and Clarke can smell the perfume he's used. "I was hoping we might get to know each other a little better."

She can feel his fingers rubbing circles over her wrist, and physically has to stop herself from shuddering. She knows that if she would agree to do something with Clovis – to have sex with him – everyone would find out. She doesn't need to be an expert in their customs to know it would embarrass Bellamy, not to mention Octavia.

"I think we know each other well enough." This time she doesn't hide the annoyance in her voice. She isn't worried that he'll attack her. She may not be the strongest woman in the world, but she has no doubt that she can take on Clovis.

"C'mon now," he croons, but his voice makes her want to wince. "Perhaps you could convince Bellamy to let you come. After all, you are a princess."

Her heart stutters. Does he – would Bellamy give her in place of Octavia? Make her marry this – this _peacock_ to keep the peace? Clarke feels her blood run cold. No, that can't be true. Bellamy wouldn't. He _wouldn't._ Of all the stupid traditions this place has, surely this wasn't one of them?

She hates him even more for putting the idea in her head. "I don't think so," she replies icily.

He frowns, making himself look ugly. "See here, I'm-"

"Clarke." Relief, sweet relief, washes over Clarke when she hears Bellamy's voice. He is there in a second, slipping his hand into hers. Her entire body relaxes, and she gives his hand a squeeze. "I was getting a bit worried about finding you. Is everything alright?" He is wearing a smile, a courtier's smile, but even Clovis cannot mistake the fire in his eyes.

"Everything's fine," Clovis says sulkily. He lets go of Clarke's arm.

"Well, we should get in place for dinner. The cooks have worked very hard."

"Yes, of course-" Bellamy begins to lead her away before Clovis has finished, tugging her through the crowd by the hand (his hands are rough and hard, the hands of a worker). He nods to Links who returns it as he leads them up to the table. He is still smiling, but he's not very good at hiding his expression; his eyes make it look like he wants to set Clovis' hair on fire. She imagines it for a moment, his blonde curls light up, burning to ash.

"Are you alright?" he murmurs lowly, leaning into Clarke a little.

"Of course," she replies back. She makes her voice clear, to show that she's not scared. "It'll take a lot more than Clovis to frighten me, though I imagine he is a terror when his hair is a mess."

Bellamy lets out a little snort of laughter, quickly turning it into a cough as Clovis approaches. He is sitting next to him after all. Octavia is sitting on Clovis' left, and she knows that Lincoln being next to her gives Bellamy some comfort.

Before the meal begins, there are ceremonies to go through: a declaration is read out first, the peace treaty that was signed after the war. Then there is the dancing. She would laugh if it wasn't something serious. Plus, there's the music. She would never have believed she would like the pounding of the drums, but the rhythm stirs something inside her, and she has to work to stop herself from swaying. Bellamy is leaning towards her, explaining the meanings of the dance in low whispers.

"You don't use the piano for these dances?" she asks, spying one in the far corner.

"Not for this; we use the piano when everyone gets up and dance after the meal."

She does a double-take. "Dancing? You never said there would be dancing!" When Bellamy tilts his head slightly, he's smiling. "I don't know how to dance Bellamy!" she hisses.

"Don't worry. Dancing well is all about having a partner who knows what they're doing."

"So you're a good dancer?"

His lips twitch. "Not really." He's looking ahead, but winks at her; and the desire to laugh becomes so strong that she has to hide her mouth behind her hand. As she looks out into the crowd, she sees that they've been caught talking. But no one looks upset; in fact she catches smiles from her people, like finding flowers in a field of grass. They're not just friendly smiles; it's like they know a secret, like... She forces herself to watch the dancers.

Both Bellamy and Clovis speak, and Clarke is pleased that Bellamy's speech seems to resonate with the people more than Clovis'. Finally there is the toasting. Clarke knows that there is more importance emphasised on these toasts then they would be back home. As far she can tell, they're akin to making a wish, or a prayer. She knows to take it seriously when she stands along with everyone else.

"To peace," Bellamy announces.

"And to justice," says Clovis, adding his bit as rehearsed. When he and Bellamy smile at each other it looks more like a grimace.

Everyone lifts their glasses in the air. Clarke is about to take a drink when she accidently catches Bellamy's arm (he's right-handed while she's left-handed). He drips some of his wine on the table, over the large bit of meat on his plate, ready to be eaten.

There's a fizzle as the liquid burns through the flesh, and an acidic smells burns in her nose.

* * *

" _There's always going to be bad stuff out there. But here's the amazing thing – light trumps darkness, every time. You stick a candle into the dark, but you can't stick the dark into the light."_

Jodi Picoult, _Change of Heart_

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 **A/N:** As usual:

1) Dun dun dun! What did you guys think of the ending? Who do you think tried to poison Bellamy? Is Clovis a master assassin underneath all those curls? Or is it someone closer? Let me know your theories.

2) Are you guys enjoying Bellamy and Clarke's relationship? Trust me, there's even more to come in the next chapters.

3) What did you guys think of the quotes? I particularly love the song by Boyce Avenue (just love Boyce Avenue in general) and it felt like it applied to Clarke and Bellamy's relationship, with Bellamy trying to teach her about new ideas and tribe life. Also, I know this chapter has a lot of poetry in it, but Carol Ann Duffy is one of my favourite poets, and I would really recommend reading it. I'm not one that's crazy about poetry, but hers is really accessible and not waffley at all. I would highly advise giving it a try. I hope it didn't throw anything off in the chapter.

4) In case any of you are wondering, I incorporated _Once Upon a Time_ in the discussion about fairytales, and another one of my favourite couples, Emma and Hook (disclaimer: I do not own these characters).

5) So Clarke's learning how to shoot? I thought it was about time that she started becoming a bit more badass. I feel that she's more of a healer in this fic, but I think it's about time for her to start becoming stronger. If she's not tough enough for you, don't worry, there's a reason for it; and there's more in the next chapter.

6) I know this chapter is shorter than the other two, but trust me, from the way it's going the next two are going to be a LOT longer i.e. at least over ten thousand words, if not twelve thousand. So good news for those of you who like long chapters!

7) Now I'm going to try and get the next chapter to you guys as soon as I can. Unfortunately it may take some time as I'm visiting my cousin in London for a few days, and when I get back I'm going to a friend's birthday party. And now that I've looked at the next chapter, I think it needs a lot of editing. Don't get me wrong, I absolutely love it – I think the last two chapters are going to be the best. I'm hoping that I'll get it out to you soon, at least in a week.

So that's it. Until next time! And again, would it be too much trouble to leave a review? I would really like to know your thoughts on this story. Thanks in advance!

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 **Hours to make. Seconds to comment.**

 **PLEASE REVIEW!**


	4. Chapter Four

**A/N:** This chapter was meant to be up yesterday, when I had a full day to work on it. But of course, everything happened at once and it got to eleven at night and I still hadn't read through it. Plus I was knackered since I went over to my cousin's this week to help her look after her two little girls, both under three years old – such sweet children, but one of them is at the stage where she keeps asking "But why? But why?" to anything you say, which makes you want to bang your head against the wall for something else to do. But thankfully I managed to find the time today to edit, even though I had such a hellish day at work.

I'm quite pleased with this chapter. It was a lot shorter than before, but I added quite a few bits to it, which is why it took a lot longer to edit. For those of you that love long chapters, you'll be pleased to know this one's over twelve thousand words. Again, the next chapter needs a lot adding to it to, so it may take me a little while to get it done – hopefully no more than a week. I have a free weekend, so if all goes to plan that it should be fine (though we all know what happens to best laid plans).

And seriously? Nearly thirty reviews for the last chapter?! You guys are **INCREDIBLE.** Thank you so much for all the lovely comments, honestly, each one of them makes me burst into a grin. You're all amazing – thank you! Hope you love this chapter even more!

 **Summary:** "I am going to offer you a deal. Your companion can be taken back, left close to your city, and go free. He will be unharmed. In return, you have to agree to join our tribe." An AU story where Clarke stumbles upon a Grounder tribe. In return for sparing the life of her boyfriend, she has to go with them as part of their tribe. Reluctantly she agrees, though it doesn't mean that she has to like it, particularly their leader, Bellamy Blake. Bellarke story with some Linctavia.

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 **DISCLAIMER:** **I do NOT own** _ **The 100**_ **or any of the characters; I also do not own any quotes/poetry/lyrics used in this fic.**

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 **Bravery**

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" _When we hold each other, in the darkness, it doesn't make the darkness go away. The bad things are still out there. The nightmares are still walking. When we hold each other we feel not safe, but better. 'It's all right' we whisper, 'I'm here, I love you,' and we lie: 'I'll never leave you.' For just a moment or two the darkness doesn't seem so bad."_

Neil Gaiman, _Neil Gaiman's Midnight Days_

* * *

She must be tired or stressed, because it takes Clarke a moment to realise what's happened. A moment in which Bellamy knocks the glass out of Clarke's hand. Sure enough the liquid creates a sizzling noise when it lands on the food, the smell so strong she wants to step back. Bellamy doesn't spare a moment before he leaps over Clovis (who gives a girlish squeal and ducks under the table) and grabs Octavia's glass, but not before she's taken a sip.

Clarke is beside Octavia in a second. "Are you okay?"

"What's going on?" Lincoln asks. He has put down his own glass and moves to her, his face braced, like he's preparing the worst. Bellamy glances at Clarke, leaning towards his sister. She sees his feet tapping over the floor, and his eyes are already searching the crowd.

Octavia glances between the three of them. "I'm fine," she insists. "Nothing's wrong – right?" she adds when she sees Bellamy's face.

He looks over at Clarke. "It would have been instant," she confirms. Her heart is still racing, and she keeps going through all the things she knows about poisons in her head and coming to the same conclusion: Octavia's okay. Something that burns through flesh like that, the affects would be instant. She stands, quickly scanning the faces of the crowd. Everyone is watching and murmuring, some standing, but no one else seems to have collapsed. _Everything's okay_ , she tells herself. She wishes her body would listen. Her legs feel like they're shaking.

Bellamy whips round to Niala, who is the only one that has the guts to step forward. "What is this?" he snarls.

"Your Grace, I swear-"

"You _swear?_ We were almost killed!"

She's never seen Bellamy like this before. Usually he's calm, quietly handling problems with consideration. But now it's like he's been lit on fire, and despite knowing him, knowing that he won't hurt her, Clarke backs away. She can see the warrior in him now, the man that fought a war; the man that killed.

There are shouts, and the crowd grows agitated, moving like a restless wave. She turns her head and sees some people arguing, tribe against tribe. Voices grow louder, and a man is sent sprawling. More yells, and she watches as people begin to fight.

"Clarke!" She focuses back on Bellamy; he's half-turned, but she sees his hand go to the dagger on his belt. "Get back to the house."

She feels shivers spread through her body, a certain lightness in her limbs; but instead of wanting to run, she goes towards him. "I'm not leaving you. You need my help-"

He spins, grabbing hold of her so hard that she cries out. "Now is _not_ the time to have this argument! I have to sort this, and I can't be distracted with your safety!* You're going back-" He thrusts her backwards and she feels someone catch her – Links. "You too Octavia!"

"Bell-" Clarke sees Octavia fight towards her brother, but it's Lincoln that grabs hold of her.

"Octavia, go-"

"We can sort this – I'm not leaving you Lincoln-"

She watches the man dip his head, pressing a kiss against Octavia's lips. That's all he can do before he presses her into the hands of the guards surrounding them and they are led out the tent. Clarke is yelling for Bellamy, eyes right on him, but people block her view and she watches as he's swallowed into the crowd. The last thing she sees before she is forced out is Clovis hastily ducking his head back under the tablecloth.

"Links, let me go!" She struggles in his arms, but the man's grip barely needs to tighten to keep hold.

"I'm sorry Princess, but we need to get you to safety."

"I would have been safe with Lincoln!" cries Octavia, who is putting up a much better fight. By now they have reached the house. Links and Solo remain guarding the front door, and they can already see people – guards – securing the house, the back door and outside the windows.

Octavia rounds on Clarke. "What happened?" she demands.

"The cups – the drinks were poisoned, mine and Bellamy's," Clarke stutters.

"By who?"

"I – I don't know. How would I know?"

Octavia lets out a little groan and sinks onto the chair. "Gods no," she whispers.

"What does this mean?" Clarke asks. She kneels beside Octavia. "Does this mean war? Octavia!" she almost shouts, giving her a little shake.

"War," is Octavia's reply. Her hands go over her eyes. "Gods, this might end everything! I might not be able to marry Lincoln!"

She thinks Octavia may have missed the point. Octavia must notice this because she says, "I know war's the worst thing. But – I love him Clarke." Her face is so pinched that Clarke feels a stab of sympathy.

Clarke places a hand on the girl's knee. "It'll be okay. Bellamy will sort it out."

Octavia snorts through her hands. "Bellamy will leap down their throats. You know he will."

Clarke finds it hard to argue with that. The two girls wander restlessly round the room, too anxious to even think about going upstairs to change, before someone comes in. "I thought you would want to eat," says Cora. She is carrying a tray with a cover over it, and when she lifts it up she reveals bowls of stew. She goes towards the fire, sitting on a footstool. "Let's eat on our knees," she suggests. She looks in the direction of the girls. "I think after all the excitement we deserve a little relaxation."

Neither of the girls sit down. "Where's Bellamy?"

"And Lincoln?"

"There's a meeting," says Cora. She gestures to the seats opposite her. "Last I heard, Bellamy didn't sound happy. I could hear Clovis pleading with him-"

Clarke can't help the small smile, pleased over the idea of Clovis begging for the alliance. Octavia clearly isn't. "Tell me that the alliance is still on." She practically throws herself at Cora. " _Babaduo_ , please. You have to get me out, I need to see Lincoln and Bellamy."

Cora reaches out, touching her cheek. "Child, I agree with your brother on this one. Let's just keep you two safe. It was a very near miss – too near for comfort, or for your brother to ignore the dangers of the Northern tribe."

Clarke thinks of how easily she and Bellamy could have been dead. If they hadn't knocked arms they would have drunk the poison, and probably would not have lived a minute longer. She says a silent thanks that she is left-handed and Bellamy is right-handed.

They eventually eat their stew, though Octavia fidgets through it all. The night has truly settled, and they see the carts heading outside the village before Bellamy comes back. He looks knackered, eyes heavy and shoulders sagging, that Clarke resists the urge to pounce on him.

Octavia, however, has no such qualms. "What happened?" she demands, striding towards him. "Is the alliance still on? Am I allowed to marry Lincoln?"

Clarke admires the fact that he keeps his temper. He holds up a hand to silence her, and she can see he is trying not to yell. "The alliance is still on. Clovis and Niala deny that they had anything to do with it, and I can't find any proof that they're lying. So I have agreed that provided no one else is hurt, and that nothing else is done, the alliance will stand. Including your marriage to Lincoln." Octavia exhales when she hears that. "However, I've sent them all back and told them that as long as nothing else happens, Lincoln can return in a month. _Don't_ fight me on this Octavia," he says when her face screws up. "I mean it. I've had people breathing down my neck all day and I am not in the mood for another argument. One word and I swear I will end this agreement."

Octavia seems to know not to push her luck. After a few moments she reaches up and gives him a kiss on the cheek. "I'm glad you're okay," she says.

He nods, a half-smile gracing his face. "Lincoln's outside. You can say goodbye on the porch." Clarke sees Octavia's lips purse at the thought of saying goodbye in front of the guards, but after a moment she nods and steps outside.

Cora stands. "I think I'll leave too." She places her hands on Clarke's head, giving her a gentle kiss on her forehead. She does the same with Bellamy. "You two stay safe," she calls as she strides outside. The door closes, leaving the two of them alone in what seems like forever.

"Are you alright?" they say at the same time.

They smile at each other. She thinks this might have been the first time that he's truly smiled all day. "I'm fine," he says. "Just exhausted."

"Have you eaten?" Bellamy's pause tells her everything, and after a moment she returns from the kitchen with the last of Cora's stew. He tucks into it gratefully, and Clarke waits until he's finished before she questions him.

"So what happened?" she asks quietly. She is sitting beside him, in front of the fire so he can get warm.

Bellamy leans over, putting his head in his hands. "It was a nightmare," he mutters. "I don't know who's done it, so I have no way to stop it from happening again. We'll have to have all our food taste-tested from now on."

She digests this. "Octavia won't like it."

"I don't like it either," says Bellamy. "But we have to do it. I can't risk this again, not when I don't know the culprit. For gods' sake Clarke, you were nearly killed."

"We both were," she corrects. "But I'm glad you didn't break the alliance. Even if we had been killed, it wouldn't have been worth other people's lives."

Bellamy glances at her then, and she thinks he might disagree. But the moment passes and he nods wearily. "This is not how I wanted this day to turn out."

"You did great," Clarke argues. Bellamy only nods but he doesn't look convinced. A few minutes pass before she finds the nerve to ask the question that's been bugging her, and when she does it comes out in a jumble. "Bellamy, you wouldn't replace Octavia with me, would you?"

"What?" He frowns at her.

"Clovis was saying about me going to visit him in his village – before it all happened. I wondered whether, since I'm a princess-"

He gets it almost instantly, and in that moment all the tension disappears from his face. " _No_ Clarke." He leans towards her, his hand going on her leg. "I have no intention, nor will I ever, of sending you away. Having Octavia marry to secure an alliance – well, it was always going to happen. But we wouldn't do that with an outsider. I mean, it's hard enough to get you to stay here, never mind sending you away."

Of all the relief she has felt today, this is the strongest, the kind that almost makes you want to cry. Impulsively she hugs him. It's a full hug, where she wraps her arms round his body and leans into him, like she can't bear to be without him. It only takes a moment before he returns it. His arms wrap round her, and it's that simple movement, the fact he's holding her, that makes her feel secure.

"Thank you," she whispers, her mouth buried into his shoulder, so she's not quite sure he's heard it. But she can feel his smile, and she absorbs it, stores it away for when she needs it. "You're welcome, Princess."

When they pull away there is a moment where neither is sure what to do. She stands. "It's late."

He nods.

She gets to the stairs before she pauses. Turning round, she asks, "You won't be long, will you?"

He's looking at her, like he's not sure what to make of her question. Still, he can't stop the corners of his mouth from lifting upwards, just slightly. "I'll be there in five minutes."

She nods back before she heads upstairs. After all, she'll be a lot safer if Bellamy is with her.

* * *

 **XI**

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For the next few weeks things in the village are incredibly tense. Rumours start that there are members of the other tribe lurking in the forest, waiting for some of them to venture out. Bellamy actually has to lead a hunting party to prove it's safe. Many of the tribe are calling for the end of the alliance, and he spends hours in council meetings arguing against it. His mood ranges from irritable to furious, and Clarke learns when to keep quiet; Octavia, on the other hand, has never learnt tact when it comes to her brother, and the fights that the two of them have send everyone hiding in their rooms.

They are under a guard for now, and even though it's Bellamy that's ordered it, he hates the fact he's being babysat in his own house. Servants are taste-testing the food too, which none of them are happy about.

"It's not right that they should be the ones poisoned," hisses Octavia into Clarke's ear.

Clarke gives a helpless shrug. "Don't say anything." Bellamy's been in a horrid mood all evening; his reactions consist of snapping at anyone who speaks and staring into the distant, brooding.

She gives a humourless laugh. "I'm not insane."

He's quiet when they go up. The light is out but she knows he's not asleep. They used to talk a little before, but these days Clarke doesn't know how to start it.

She knows it must be very late – or early, depending on how you look at it, and it feels like until Bellamy sleeps she won't either. She rolls over, looking at his shape in the dark. "Can't sleep?"

She sees him turn his head. "Not tonight. Not for a few nights now. But you know that." He rolls over on his side, and she thinks she feels his arm stretch a little closer to him. "You haven't slept much either."

Clarke sits up in bed. "Come here."

It's pitch black; the fire's gone out now. But she can still see him raise his head a little. "Why?"

She gives a sigh. "Bellamy, I do almost everything you say. Can't you just do what _I_ say for once?"

He gives a weak chuckle but moves towards her. Under her instruction he places his head on her lap. She begins to massage his head, trying to remember how her mother would do this when she was little. Her mom always said that being a healer meant giving people comfort, however it was needed.

"You're very good at this," he murmurs after five minutes, eyes closed.

"Maybe then you'll finally get some sleep."

"And maybe I'll be a better mood?" He opens his eyes sleepily, and now that her eyes are adjusting she can see his smile. "I know I've been a pain."

"But you're scared."

He pulls a face. "I'm not _scared_. I'm just-" He sighs. "I'm worried. People are unsettled, and I don't like it." He sits up, ignoring the annoyed mew from Clarke. "I know I need to act like it doesn't matter. I need to believe that everything's alright, and my confidence will spread to everyone else. But..."

He pinches the bridge of his nose. "It was so close," he whispers. "We were so close to being killed Clarke. I grew soft in my belief that I was untouchable, and I've been proven that I'm not."

"Bellamy, we're fine. All of us are okay."

"For gods' sake Clarke, you could have died," he snaps.

His bad mood has reappeared. If Octavia was here she would snap back, and there would be a fight in less than a minute. Clarke knows this, which is why she lifts the corners of her mouth a little. "Didn't know you cared so much."

"Of course I care," he says, a hint of – of something, in his voice. "I'm not going to let you die. If I had wanted you dead I would have decided to kill you the second we found you."

"Thank you," she says. This time it isn't sarcastic or irritated. She's being honest. He could have left her to die, allowed the guards to slit her throat, but he didn't. He let her live, and it's only recently she has realised that she wouldn't have been better off.

She puts a hand on his head. "You're taking every precaution, and I know you hate it, but I think you're doing the right thing. Soon we'll find out who did this and it'll all die down – and things will go back to normal, like you said." She runs a hand through his hair, smoothing a little back. "You can talk to me, y'know."

"What do you think I'm doing?"

"I mean about ruling," she insists. "It can't be easy for you, having to take it all on yourself. I just... You _can_ talk to me. I won't tell anyone, not even Cora or Octavia-"

His hand goes over hers. "I know you wouldn't," he says softly. "Thank you for the offer." He leans back down on the bed, but this time he does so in a position so Clarke is lying next to him. They've grown used to sleeping beside each other, but this time Bellamy turns his head so his nose is beside her head. They are so close that she can feel his body heat. She doesn't turn her head to face him, but she moves just a little bit closer to him; an acknowledgement.

They both sleep right through the night after that.

* * *

 **XII**

* * *

Winter is truly here now, and everyone is busy. Bellamy organises it so everyone gets warm food (their version of a soup kitchen) and Clarke helps him make sure that everyone has warm clothes. Any animals that are caught are skinned, and their thick fur is placed across doorways to keep the rooms warm. Bonfires are lit in the streets (well, dirt roads) and at the centre of the village, so people have a chance to keep warm. Winter is never an easy thing to bear anywhere, and here it is life and death.

"I hate it," Clarke says bluntly. After another exhausting day she and Bellamy are in the bedroom, sitting by the fire. The servants have put a hot-pan at the bottom of the bed, so when they get in the sheets won't be cold.

"So do I," he says, but manages a smile. "It doesn't last long. Believe it or not, this coldness has been late coming. And once February's here things will get better. It's January that's the hard month."

"I can't wait until it's over."

His movement would seem subtle to anyone else – maybe it _is_ subtle, but to Clarke every gesture he makes catches her eye. He moves to sit beside her, kindly not blocking her from the roaring fire. "You'll love spring," he tells her. "First the greenness comes back, and then all the flowers sprout up, and once the buds open it's beautiful. And there's all the baby animals, like lambs and calves and little chicks..."

She grins. She's never seen the baby animals before, and she knows she'll be peering over the gate, watching them.

She and Bellamy go to bed, slipping the pan out to the floor. The sheets are toasty, but these days Clarke doesn't move too far from Bellamy. He is more forward than she is, moving his head close to her before he goes to sleep.

"You seem to have relaxed a little bit," she murmurs.

"I'm too busy to worry about murder attempts," comes his reply.

She is looking at him, and she doesn't miss the flicker in his eyes that gives away that he's deep in thought. She shifts closer. "Tell me."

He shakes his head. "Not right now. I don't want to think about it, not when..." He shakes his head again, and simply moves closer to her. His head is just above hers, and she has to resist the urge to push her nose into his neck.

* * *

The next day Clarke is walking through the village, trying not to slip on the iced ground, when she sees some activity in the med bay. Her heart hammers and is almost ashamed to admit that she feels a little exhilaration. This is what she's good at. This is what she's knows.

She bursts in the med bay, one of the best houses in the village. She immediately sees that someone is in trouble. The healer, who she now knows as John, is bent over a man whose chest is wheezing.

She goes besides him. "What do we have?"

"It's a cold, but his chest can't take it. He's got a slight fever and-" John jerks her head up when he sees it's her. That's a surprise: usually he doesn't pay attention to who's helping him, just as long as they _are_ helping. It's one of the things she likes about him.

But now she sees his eyes widen. "Princess Clarke, you can't be here."

She waves his concerns away, leaning over the man – Michael, she thinks his name is. "Bellamy needs to get off his high horse-" She goes to feel the man's head, but John grabs hold of her hand. She cricks her neck at him, eyebrows up.

"Princess, the King will not like it at all. This man is contagious-"

"This man needs help," she corrects. She reaches down again, but this time she feels stronger hands pull her away. Links is right behind her, and he yanks her out of the med bay in under three seconds.

"What the _hell_ are you doing?" Her voice is harsh, but it's a little squeaky too. Links is never like this; he is usually very good about telling her why he's pulling her away – in fact he rarely _ever_ pulls her away. But he doesn't answer her as he drags her back towards the house.

He gets her back in record time, pushing past the guards that still linger by the doors. Bellamy is in the living room, discussing repairs over some of the houses that aren't fit for winter. When he sees Links dragging her in he leaps up, striding towards them.

"What's going on?"

"I don't know!" Clarke is finally released, and she glowers at Links. She is a little reassured when she hears Bellamy's harsh tone of voice.

Links has the nerve to look dignified. "The Princess was in the med bay, tending to a contagious man. I felt it necessary to remove her from the situation."

"The situation is that someone is ill and I should be helping-" Clarke begins to walk away, but this time it's Bellamy's hand that grabs her.

"Thank you Links," Bellamy says quietly, nodding to him. "Have a break. We've got enough guards right now." Mollified, Links nods and leaves.

She rounds on Bellamy. "What do you mean, thanking him?" she spits out.

"Mabel," calls Bellamy loudly, his eyes still on her. "Please get the bath ready." He hears a reply before pushing Clarke upstairs.

"Bellamy, I have to go and help. If they are contagious then we need to set up quarantine, I know how to do that! It's _winter_ – people are sick, and I can – Bellamy, answer me!"

"Not here," he says through gritted teeth. "We can talk when we get into the bedroom."

She snatches her arm away. "We can _argue_ right here," she snaps.

His scowl is so fierce that it could freeze people in their tracks. He grips her hard, so intense that Clarke's certain it'll leave a bruise. "You have been around a sick person."

"I'm a _healer-_ "

"But you're a princess first," snaps Bellamy. They are in the bedroom, and the tub is still in there from this morning. A few girls are already pouring hot water in there, and they pause when they see the two of them enter. Bellamy glances at them meaningfully before looking back at Clarke. "Have a bath. We'll talk when I return."

"We will talk _now_. Don't you _dare_ walk away from me," yells Clarke. She doesn't think she has shouted at him like this, not since he first forced her to share his room.

Bellamy's hand is on the door, and he glares back at her. "The bath is full enough," he says to the servants. "Leave us." They do, scurrying out. She can bet they will be gossiping about this for a good few days.

"That man is ill. If I can help him, I should. Just because I am a princess doesn't mean that I'm better than anyone else."

"I wouldn't use your words," he says. "But a member of the royal family, particularly a princess, cannot be around sick people. It puts you in danger of getting ill. Members of the royal family do not tend to people if that's the case – not just you but me or Octavia. It's how it's always been done."

"That's a stupid rule," she snaps, and sees Bellamy's hackles rise ever so slightly.

"I'm sorry that you see it that way." His voice is quiet and carefully restrained, but that's how Clarke knows he's trying to keep his temper. "But it's a rule all the same, and you will obey it whether you like it or not. Now get in the bath."

"Why should I?"

"Aren't you a healer? Didn't you train to be one?" snaps Bellamy. "The hot water will get rid of germs."

"You can't boss me about," she cries.

"I am King," he returns. "I can boss everyone about." He turns away, and over his shoulder calls back, "I will come back in five minutes. If you aren't in the bath you know I will take it upon myself to put you in there." As the door slams shut Clarke lets out an annoyed scream. If he hears, he ignores it.

By the time he comes back Clarke is in the bath. She hates the fact she is in a vulnerable position – she daren't move too much in case he sees some of her naked body. They still turn away from each other when they're changing. And right now, when Clarke is angry, she doesn't want to show any sign of weakness.

His face is still stony, and she guesses that it must mirror hers. "I have talked to John and set up quarantine on his advisement-"

"On _my_ advisement-"

"Have you grown up?"

"Have you?" she retorts.

"I was not in the wrong."

"No?"

"No."

"Then tell me: was Links following me like before?"

He turns away, which gives her his answer.

"I _told_ you I don't need a bodyguard."

"Yes you do!" he returns, and for the first time his voice rises. "Someone tried to kill you – I need someone looking out for you. And don't you _dare_ say you can take care of yourself." He turns, only to whirl back round to her. "I swear, it's like you _want_ to die: either from poison or from illness. We don't have fancy medicines like in the cities here – we can only do so much."

"I can help-"

" _No._ "

"I don't want Links following me about," she says. She is staring at the bath water as she speaks, but she can feel her temper rising. "I'm not a doll. Octavia can take care of herself, you don't place a bodyguard on her-"

"You're wrong. Lincoln is with her. I've had a word with him, he knows to watch out for her."

"Stop interfering!"

"I have every right to interfere! And I have every right to place someone to guard you. If you want, I can look after you, but-"

"Well, I suppose I should be happy with Links then."

His jaw works. "I'd best be going. I have things to do," he says pointedly, and she bristles. "Don't go anywhere near the med bay, or I will put you on house arrest."

* * *

They aren't speaking to each other. Clarke skips dinner, saying she doesn't feel well, though no one is fooled. Bellamy takes his time coming upstairs, and when he does arrive she is in bed. Her back is facing him and he doesn't speak to her as he changes. Her skin crawls when she feels his weight on the mattress. She would happily push him out if she could. But she knows that if she attempts to leave the argument will go much worse. A part of her wants to do it; she has the need for another fight. But she has the good sense to stay, even though she is burning inside.

Bellamy is taking another hunting trip out, though because it's cold he has little optimism for it. He'll be gone for two days, and at the moment she cannot be more relieved. He leaves early, and once again she hears him making noise. This time he doesn't bother being quiet; there is a lot of slamming drawers and clanging, and she knows it's for her benefit.

"You don't go anywhere near the med bay." His voice comes out from behind her. "Links will be looking after you, whether you like it or not. Okay?"

She keeps her eyes closed.

" _Clarke._ "

"I hear you," she says, tactfully not agreeing.

She can practically see him pressing his lips together. "I have given Links full permission to drag you away if you endanger yourself. If you want everyone to see you screaming like a child, so be it." She hears him slam the door, louder than normal.

Despite Bellamy being gone, she is in a foul mood. Cora and Octavia know about the argument (it seems like the entire village knows) and the former sends the servants away and lets Clarke work out her anger by chopping herbs and vegetables for dinner, baking bread so she can pound her hands against it.

"Bellamy is a complete dick," she says as she makes her way through the sage.

"What have I been telling you?" asks Octavia, who is utterly cheerful, especially since Lincoln is back.

"I know. And at least _I'm_ not related to him." She gives Octavia a look, which causes the girl to laugh.

Clarke looks to Cora. "You agree with me, don't you?"

"If you were a normal person, I would be on your side."

She stares. "You're on Bellamy's side?"

"I am," she says easily, almost happily.

"But why? I could have helped – you know better than anyone."

"One day you will understand." Clarke's not sure if it's her imagination, but she sees Octavia glance away, with what she thinks is a smile on her face. She begins to chop the vegetables faster.

Her mood abates by the time the two days are over, though she is dreading Bellamy's return. She knows that the two of them will fight the second he comes back. She first hears of their return walking back to the house on one of her daily strolls. She doesn't go to greet them (she sees Links' eyebrows rise at this) but back inside the house. She doesn't go upstairs though; instead she remains in the kitchen, going through her herbs. She's making a book with them in, so that other people will be able to find them when –

When she leaves.

The front door opens, but she doesn't go through. She keeps her head bent, even when she hears him come through and stop at the kitchen door.

"Clarke."

Slowly she raises her head, and then quickly jerks it right when she sees Bellamy. His face is covered in dried blood, cuts marring the left side of his face.

She is by his side in a second. "What happened?" she asks. "Was it the Northern tribe? Did they attack you?"

He puts a hand on her shoulder, lightly. "I'm fine."

"Like hell you are." She touches his face, watching him wince.

"It was a moose."

"A _moose?_ "

Solo comes in. He too is covered in cuts, though he looks a lot better than Bellamy. "It got away from His Grace the first time. He had to purse it, didn't he?"

Bellamy glances at him. "Why does that sound like a criticism?"

"Does it?" Solo sounds surprised, innocent, though there is a spark in his eyes. "My apologises Your Grace. It didn't mean to be."

"Yeah, yeah," mutters Bellamy, waving a hand; he turns back to Clarke, but she talks over him.

"Why did you chase after a stupid moose? For God's sake, we have stores filled with meat. We didn't necessarily need more-"

"I don't think this is the time," he says as Solo bends his head, hiding his face. "I actually came because I need your help." She watches as he takes his jacket off, revealing a long plaster, half drenched in blood, up his arm. "That apprentice, Ginny, managed to make a plaster, but-"

"-she didn't stitch it," finishes Clarke. "And good thing too – I've seen her handiwork."

"I was wondering if you could stitch it up." She gazes at him, not bothering to disguise the widening of her eyes. Bellamy has the grace to look sheepish.

"I thought it wouldn't be safe for me," she comments.

Bellamy shoots a look at Solo, who tactfully walks back into the living room. "It wouldn't be safe for you to get ill. But I'm happy if you want to help in things such as stitching and operations. That is, if you show that you can handle it."

She deliberately pauses for a moment before nodding. "I'll go get my things." He nods back, a little thank you.

When she returns Bellamy is sitting at the table. One of the guards that remained, Jared, is giving Bellamy and update along with Links. The latter lifts his eyebrows at what Clarke is doing, but knows better than to say anything. She's barely listening to what they are saying as she boils some water and dips the cloth in. Gently she cleans the remaining dirt from the wound (what an idiot Ginny is) ignoring Bellamy's wince as she does.

She threads a sterilised needle and begins to stitch the wound. She hesitates, and then enters the skin – a bit sharply. Bellamy lets out a little inhale, noticeably. "Gods' Clarke."

"Sorry," she says, smiling a little too sweetly. Bellamy glowers at her as the guards give a slight titter. They go silent the instant he turns his face on them. She focuses on fixing the cut, more gentle than before. She carefully ties the chord together at the same moment he dismisses the guards.

"For gods' sake Clarke," he says as soon as they are gone. "I have a reputation y'know. Some people fear me."

"They're easily scared then." Bellamy closes his eyes, but the corner of his mouth lifts. She gets up, washing a cloth with fresh water before returning. "Did it break your nose?"

He nods. "Ginny set it. It's not that pain-" He winces when she touches it.

"It might be an idea to put some ice on it later," she advises. She gently puts the cloth on his face, dabbing the blood off. "Did she use some alcohol to sterilise the wound?"

"She did. Don't worry, she's not that bad." Clarke snorts.

There's a delicate pause, and Clarke realises, so stupidly, that she's cleaning Bellamy's face. She has her hand underneath his chin, staring right at him. Their eyes meet and he seems to notice this too. When other people have their faces this close, they're doing a very different activity. She forces herself to focus on her work so she doesn't go red, and wonders why the hell she needed to clean his face at all. He could have done that himself.

"So," he says, breaking the silence. "What have you been up to while I've been gone?"

She tilts her head, focusing on cleaning the cuts. "Is that a clever way of asking me if I've behaved myself?"

"It wasn't," he says. "I honestly wanted to know-"

"It's been fine," she replies, wanting to avoid an argument. "Nothing's happened here, and no, I haven't been to the med bay."

"I'm glad," he says, but his voice is gentle and it's clear he doesn't want a row either. He closes his eyes as she wipes just above his brow. "You feel okay?" he asks, and she briefly allows herself to wonder if he needed to keep his eyes closed to ask that.

"I feel better than you do," she says, with perhaps a hint of a snap, but all it does is make Bellamy laugh. "I'm fine," she clarifies. She sits back and lifts his chin up with her hand. "I think I've gotten most of it off." She should turn away, but she finds herself gently moving over his cuts, checking. "You'll have some bruising by tomorrow. Maybe a scar or two."

"I've looked worse." She smiles and gets up, turning away to gather her things together.

She looks at him. "Thank you," he says.

"My pleasure." She turns away before she goes red.

"If you want to look after the people who are injured similar to me, things like that..." She can practically hear him swallow. "I don't mind."

Her hands still for a moment as she's gathering her items back in her bag. "Thank you," she says, knowing it's the closest thing to an apology she's going to get. She begins to close her bag, wanting to hurry out before –

 _Before you do something you might not want to walk away from._

But his voice stops her. "Friends, then?"

She can't see his face, but his tone sounds so hopeful and... Vulnerable? Maybe even a little pleading? She half turns her head, and meets his eyes only briefly before she smiles. She sees his own nervous one before she confirms, "Friends," and walks back to the bedroom, not entirely certain what just happened.

From that day, Links stops being her bodyguard.

* * *

 **XIII**

* * *

Winter feels long, the weak sun barely affecting any ice. But according to Bellamy this has been a good winter – usually they have a few feet of snow. "You must be good luck," he tells her. He says it in bed when they're half asleep, so she doesn't think there's anything in it.

The layer of ice that has stuck firm to the floor finally leaves, and the timid buds of flowers begin to struggle free. Clarke's not sure if it's her mood, pleased that winter is finally over, but the air already feels warmer. One day she is all set to go visit Cora when Bellamy appears. He has a grin on his face that reminds her of an excited child, and he says he has a surprise for her. She can't stop herself from smiling at him, at the way his feet dance over the ground as they walk.

"Bellamy, would you just tell me?" she asks as he leads her forward. "You can't keep it a secret, especially since I know the layout of the village now."

He returns her look with bright eyes. "Well, I thought since winter's over, it might be time for you to learn how to ride."

"Learn to-" She pauses, but now she is just as excited as Bellamy. She's wanted to learn how to ride ever since Bellamy first lifted her onto Elizabeth. She'll be able to run if she needs to, in case there _is_ an attack. She'll be able to go out on her own, she'll –

She'll be able to escape.

For some reason she feels her legs slow a little.

"Are you going to let me use Elizabeth?"

"No. You're going to get you your own horse."

"My own?"

"There are a few horses for sale. We'll have a look at them and make a decision. We can always wait a little while or teach you on Elizabeth or Hosanna until we find one."

"Blake!"

She's never heard Bellamy be referred to by his last name. They turn at the same time. It's the blonde boy that is on the council with Bellamy – his name's Justin, though Clarke doesn't think she's actually ever had a conversation with him. She's probably not important enough to be on his radar.

She sees Bellamy's face fall, and it almost hurts to see that child-like glow leave it. "You go in," he tells her. "I'll be there in a minute."

She leaves, casting a glance behind her as Justin comes towards them. She doesn't like him. He always seems to be mad at Bellamy, always the first to be negative about his decisions. Not that Clarke doesn't understand that Bellamy can be annoying as hell, but even she lets up on him more than Justin. But then, she doesn't know what they're arguing about. She's not on the council.

In the stables she sees Elizabeth first, who pokes her nose out to say hello. Then she goes to Hosanna, who does the same, butting her shoulder gently. She pats him on the neck before wandering down the stalls, looking at the other horses. She spends more time in here than she would care to admit, and she knows most of the friendly horses. She nods and speaks to a few people, but the stables are quiet at this time – probably the reason Bellamy chose this time of day.

She's reached the end of the stables, and since the building is pretty big (almost everyone here has a horse, whether it belongs to a family or individual) she figures she had better turn back. As she spins round on her heel she catches sight of one of the horses in the stalls. She spins back round.

The horse is hidden in the corner. Clarke makes a clicking sound with her tongue, the same thing that Bellamy does when he wants a horse to come near. The horse turns his head, staring at her.

Her breath catches in her throat. He's beautiful. He has a slim shaped face with keen ears, and he doesn't have a stocky build like most of the horses here. But it's his colouring that stops her in her tracks. He isn't chestnut; he's _red_ , not blood red, more like the darker side of fire. But he's definitely not the chestnut colour that most horses are. She's not sure how she would be able to describe it. But she's seen hundreds of horses in her time here, and none of them look like him. Her fingers twitch, and she wants to take a pencil and sketch him so she doesn't forget.

Without thinking she lets herself into the stall. He hasn't made any sign of being friendly towards her, and she knows that he could easily kill her with one kick of his leg. But there's something about him that makes her want to get closer.

"Hello beautiful," she murmurs. Cautiously she holds her hand out. She watches his eyes stare at her before he moves his legs. His nose nuzzles the palm of her hand, whiskers tickling her palm. "Sorry boy, I don't have any treats. Next time."

His ears flicker back like he's annoyed, and his tail twitches. But he doesn't move away. Instead he moves his nose down, nudging her clothes as if he doesn't believe her.

"Clarke." She turns, spotting Bellamy outside the stall.

"Hey," she greets, smiling at him. She turns back to the stallion. "Isn't he beautiful? Who does-"

"Get away from him, now." Even though he's interrupted her his voice is measured, like he doesn't want to spook her.

Her eyebrows crease. "Why?"

"He's vicious."

She wants to laugh out loud; almost does, but the expression on his face makes her catch herself. "No he's not. Look at him." She is now scratching his ear, and the horse is leaning into her hand, head lowered.

"Just because he's showing restraint for the first time in his life doesn't mean he's had a change of heart." Bellamy approaches the stall door, inching it open. "Please, move out the way."

She's not sure, but she thinks it's the first time he's used the word _please_ with her. She gives the horse one last pat on the neck before she leaves. As soon as Bellamy is in reach he grabs her, yanking her out of harm's way and slamming the stall door. It may be her imagination, but she thinks the horse looks annoyed. His ears go back and he is still watching them.

"Don't ever go in a stall unless you know the horse," he tells her.

She rolls her eyes. "Another rule?"

"This one could save your life."

"He was perfectly fine," she says, gesturing to the horse. "He likes me. Who does he belong to?"

Bellamy grips her arm. "You are _not_ learning to ride on him."

"I was just asking a question," she says. And it's true, but that question is definitely a leading one.

His lips purse. "He's mine."

"Yours? I thought you only owned Hosanna and Elizabeth."

"They're the ones I _keep_. I breed them; this is their second youngest, Blaze."

 _Blaze._ "That's the perfect name for him." She likes the fact that he was bred from Elizabeth and Hosanna. Now that she knows, she can see the two horses in him: Elizabeth's beauty and Hosanna's build.

"Unfortunately he doesn't have the best temperament." Bellamy looks at him over his shoulder. Blaze is now kicking the door, throwing a tantrum. "Usually Hosanna and Elizabeth's colts are good natured, but he's the exception."

"Can't you ride him?"

"He's fine once you get on him. And you're his new best friend if you're leading him to a field with other horses. But try to get him to do something he doesn't want to, and he'll drag you halfway across the village – as I've found out."

The banging is getting annoying. Clarke ducks round Bellamy and strokes his neck. Bellamy makes an impatient noise, but she ignores him. Blaze is now pushing his nose on her shoulder. "See," she says, facing him. "He's a sweetheart."

"That's not a word that's been used to describe him before," he replies darkly, glaring at Blaze. The horse gives a little snort, showing his teeth to Bellamy.

"What did Justin want?" she asks. Instantly Bellamy face's transforms into a scowl. "Something about the council?"

"Yeah." He runs a hand through his hair. "Justin wants us to put more guards on the walls. He thinks that the Northern tribe is going to attack us any day now."

"But you don't?"

"If they are, my spies are way off."

"Spies?"

He hitches an eyebrow up. "Didn't you learn anything about the past kings and queens? Knowledge is power, and you use spies to gain knowledge. I have a few placed in the Northern tribe, just as I expect Clovis and Niala have some in ours."

"Spies?" Her eyes shift behind him.

"I know everyone in this tribe. There are no spies for them here, unless you count the ones I have in my pocket. The Northern tribe is bigger though; it's harder to keep track of."

"They have more people?" There's an edge in Clarke's voice. If there are more of them, victory will surely be theirs if war happens.

Bellamy is getting even better at reading her expression; he steps towards her, touching her shoulder. "There are more," he confirms. "But that works against them, because there is a lot of division in their tribe. In fact my spies tell me that there's rumours that it'll split off into two fractions."

"Really?"

"Well, would you want Clovis as your king?" He smirks at her and she can't help but smile a bit, though the worry has taken root inside her. "Look, I don't think we're anywhere near being attacked right now. And if we are, then we're ready."

"We are?"

"Yes. We won't be easy prey for them. Everyone is being trained and we're clearing up our escape routes." He smiles at her again, gentler than before. "Trust me Clarke. If we're in danger, I'll get you out."

His words aren't spoken light-heartedly; there's deepness in his gravelly voice, and his eyes are right on her. She knows he means the words.

She hides her face into Blaze's neck. "Well then, you'd better teach me how to ride."

"I'd better," he agrees, the seriousness still in his voice.

She takes a moment to clear her face before turning back to him. "Y'know Justin hates your guts, right?"

He smirks, snorting down a laugh. "Don't worry, I know."

"Why?"

He turns away. "It's a long story."

"Then shorten it."

In another mood, another time, he might have snapped at her. But he simply quirks his eyebrows at her before reluctantly smiling. "Very well." He reaches over and pats Blaze too, but she notices that he keeps a wary eye on the stallion. He also positions himself close to her, as planning to pull her away if needed. "After the old king died-"

"What was his name?" Bellamy shoots her a glance but she says, "I need to know."

"Hans," he replies. "After he died, Justin's family were high up in the hierarchy. He was almost certainly the next king."

"But..."

"I became King." This time his smile is bitter, and the light from his eyes that usually sparks his face up is gone. "He had a better claim than I had – a lot better. But when it came down to it, the people wanted me." He gives a little shrug, like it doesn't matter. "So I became King, and my family shot up in status. Justin's never been able to let it go. By blood, he sees himself as the rightful king and I'm a usurper.

"It was a smack in the face for him, especially because there's always been some rivalry between us. When we were learning to spar, Justin and I were pitted against each other-" He pauses. "Y'know what I mean by spar?" Clarke nods. It's how they train for hand-to-hand combat; Bellamy once told her that during battle, it usually came down to one-on-one fights. Now that winter's ended, it's less dangerous for them to spar on the ground. She's seen Octavia fight, using her sword skills; Links with his strength; Jared with his speed. "Anyway, Justin was pretty good-"

"But you were better?"

This time when he smiles, he doesn't hide the smugness in it. "Yes. I was a decent fighter, and when me and Justin sparred – I made sure I beat him. He's never let it go, and since I became King he's gotten worse."

"Is he a threat to you?"

"Possibly." He says it almost thoughtfully, staring at Blaze.

"Well, shouldn't you be more worried?"

Her sharpness catches his attention; he glances sideways at her. "What? Are _you_ worried about me, Princess?"

"Yes," she says, because she's tired of trying to deny it, not just to him but to herself. "Besides, your death could mean Octavia dies too. Wouldn't anyone who tried to hurt you go for her as well?" Yet even as she says these words, she remembers that the poison was only in her and Bellamy's glasses. Octavia had drunk from hers, but it hadn't been spiked.

Bellamy explains. "No. When a king dies, if he doesn't have any children, the line ends, regardless of the fact he could have nine brothers with dozens of offspring. The moment a king is crowned, his line becomes the only valid one. This was an attempt to stop a great nephew coming out of the woodwork, especially since we could never prove that someone was related to the royal line. Of course, they didn't count on siblings killing each other before the oldest was crowned, but..." He lifts his hands up, shrugging.

"You say kings. Can't women inherit the throne?"

"Yeah. But it doesn't usually happen."

"Why not?"

"They prefer male rulers. Usually the council try to rig it so a male gains the throne."

"Females can be great rulers!" she protests.

He holds up his hands. "Remember who you're talking to. I'm the one who's told you stories about Elizabeth I and Isabella of Spain. And I grew up with Octavia and _Babaduo_ , not to mention having to put up with you." She feels a flicker of pleasure when he mentions her too, and briefly berates herself. "I'm used to strong women."

"So..." She shifts on her feet, wishing she could look at Blaze. But she thinks when she asks this, she needs to look at him. "How did you become king?"

"Like I said, long story." He turns away from her. "Let's find you a different horse, shall we?"

Leaving Blaze with a little pat on the neck, she chases after him. "I have another question."

"Of course you do."

"If it's only the king's line that can inherit – that means his children – then why did they try to poison me?"

There's a pause while he turns the question about in his head. "They probably thought it would be safer to poison yours too, in case I picked up the wrong one." He looks at her in such a way that she wants to hug him. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," she says immediately.

"It is-"

"That person doesn't have to kill you. If someone else gets hurt, it's their fault. It will never be yours." She grabs hold of his arm to stop him from walking off. "Don't blame yourself Bellamy."

His face has tightened, so much so that she's not sure can reach him. "I'm King. Everything that happens is my fault."

* * *

One day she is coming back after stitching a wound in the med bay when she sees the fighting. There's a group of guards in the "ring", and when she gets closer she sees Jeremiah is fighting Lincoln. Bellamy says they often fight outsiders so they can gain different skills and learn different strategies. She settles next to Octavia, who gives her a friendly nudge but doesn't glance away from Lincoln. The warrior is making swift work of Jeremiah. Octavia's grinning. "He's beaten the last three guards," she murmurs.

She glances over at Solo, who is rubbing his shoulder. "Has he fought Bellamy yet? Or is that not allowed?"

"It's allowed. Bell's just been busy." When Lincoln pins Jeremiah against the ground, Octavia lets out a cheer that almost bursts Clarke's eardrums. She watches Lincoln shoot Octavia a smile, watches as the girl blooms under his gaze. Lincoln lets Jeremiah free, and the man gives him a nod of respect.

Beside the two of them, Links is getting ready to fight. But before he can take a step into the ring, Clarke beats him to it.

Lincoln raises his eyebrows. "You fight?" he asks in that calm voice, that voice he uses when he knows the answer.

" _No_." Links grabs her shoulder; she shakes him off. "Princess, I strongly advise against this. You have no experience in sparring-"

"How can I gain experience if I don't participate?" She looks between the guards before turning back to Lincoln. "I'm willing if you are."

He gives a humourless laugh. "Clarke, Bellamy would murder me. Forget marrying Octavia; I'd never see the next sunrise."

"I'll do it." Clarke turns, her muscles sagging a little when she sees Octavia step forward. "I'm the only one he won't kill if she's hurt."

She watches Lincoln give her a kiss as she walks into the ring. "You sure about this?" she murmurs lowly to Clarke.

"I'm sure." She's tired of being thought of as weak; as not being able to handle herself. It's time to change that.

Octavia nods, takes a breath, and pulls her arm back.

Ten minutes later she hears the door of the med bay. Even though her arms are crossed in a typical "tough" stance, Octavia's mouth squints. The makeshift curtain sweeps back and Bellamy's face – eyes flashing with fire, jaw clenched – appears.

"Bell-"

"Don't talk – either of you." The words sound like they are prised out of his mouth, like he's spitting out his own teeth. He takes in Clarke, head back with a bunch of tissues against her nose, stained in red, and lets out a frustrated growl. "What the _hell_ were you thinking?"

"I was-"

"I told you _not_ to talk."

"Then don't ask stupid questions," snaps Octavia.

He rounds on her. "I don't know which one of you is more foolish – no, more _idiotic_ : you," he says, glancing at Clarke, "for picking a fight, or _you_ for encouraging her."

"How about because she's right?" Bellamy's voice is fierce, but Octavia steps forward, pushing her hair behind her shoulders. "Maybe there won't be a war – gods hope _not_ – but if there is, then she needs to be ready. You can't guarantee that she won't be caught by a warrior, even if you get her ready to run-"

"You want to discuss this _now?_ "

"You're the one who started it. Admit it Bell: she needs to learn how to fight."

"And giving her a bloody nose is going to teach her that?"

"Enough!" Clarke's voice is muffled because of the tissue, but its loudness catches their attention. "This isn't helping anything."

She sees Octavia sink down a little. Bellamy, on the other hand, turns his gaze onto Clarke. "Has this taught you that you're not a warrior princess?"

"She's not that bad actually. She lasted three minutes against me."

"Three minutes," mutters Clarke.

"That's pretty good. I'm a decent fighter," she says, a glimmer of a smile on her face.

She sees Bellamy pinch the bridge of his nose. "Gods help me," he mutters.

Clarke sends Octavia a glance, and the girl murmurs something about seeing Lincoln. She ducks back through the curtain.

"Don't be mad," she says after Octavia's left.

He laughs, but it's bitter and almost like a cough. "'Don't be mad'? Are you serious? You're _bleeding_ Clarke."

"She just knocked my nose-"

"Pretty bad knock, wouldn't you say?" He moves towards her, his fingers going underneath her chin. "Let me see."

She moves the tissues away. "It's stopped bleeding. And it's not broken. John's already checked it."

He twinges the tip of it, and she flinches. "Just a knock, right?" he asks, unsmiling. He turns away, and she has the feeling that she doesn't want her to see his face. "What were you thinking?"

"I need to know how to fight-"

When he looks to her his face is made of stone, and because she knows him (knows him so well that she can read his expression at a glance, knows when he's entering a room, knows how to soothe him when he's stressed) she keeps quiet. "We'll talk about this later. You need to rest-"

"I'm _fine_." She pushes herself off the bed only to see the world go hazy in front of her. It clears in a second, but she hesitates and her legs wobble. Bellamy's hands come on either side of her, holding her still. "Fine," she adds quickly.

He doesn't answer; instead he picks her up so quickly that she doesn't have a chance to react and carries her out the door.

"Bell-" Her head is spinning, and when she opens her eyes everything seems blurred at the edges. She lifts her hands against his chest, but when she attempts to sit up there's a burst of pain, like a firework ricocheting. She gives up, closing her eyes and letting herself lean against his body. _Okay, maybe he has a point._

By the time they get back to the house, she's certain she feels better. He doesn't pause when they get into the living room, walking up the stairs and finally depositing her on the bed.

"This is ridiculous," she huffs. She attempts to sit up, but Bellamy's hand pushes her back down, sweeping the covers back before pulling them over her body. "Octavia barely touched me." That's not quite true, she knows because when she tries to sit up she feels a spasm of pain along her upper arms. "I'm perfectly fine."

"Sure you are." With one hand on her shoulder, he tucks the covers round her so she feels like she's being swaddled.

"I don't need to rest-"

"Uh-huh."

"I can get up-"

"Sure you can."

"Bellamy, _stop_ agreeing with me!"

His mouth curves into a little smile. "I thought you wanted me to agree with you." He shifts off the bed and goes to the bookshelf. "Here. You can read this. It's called _Gone With The Wind_. It's about a thousand pages, so it should keep you busy."

"Do you honestly think I'm going to just sit here?"

She crosses her arms as Bellamy turns, preparing herself for another fight. She expects him to threaten her, to put her under house arrest. But he sighs and steps forward, sitting on the side on the bed. Facing her he says, "You do this for me, and I'll do something for you."

"Like?"

He lifts his shoulders. "What do you want?"

"To fight-"

"No. What else do you want?"

She leans back against the pillows, scowling. In truth, she's thinking. What _does_ she want? Well, her freedom to go back home, but she knows Bellamy isn't offering that. She could ask to be allowed to help when people are sick but, again, she doesn't think that Bellamy will allow that; besides which, she's pretty sure she'll win that battle eventually – she too good a healer. So what else would she want? She shifts on the mattress when she notes that Bellamy has given her all that she could want: lovely clothes, hot water, three meals a day, even trips out –

She lifts her face. "I want Blaze to be my horse."

Bellamy closes his eyes. "Of course you do," he murmurs. He tilts his head up to the ceiling. "I swear, you have a death wish. Fine," he says, jerking it back down. "You'll stay here for the rest of the day, and I'll let you learn to ride on Blaze – but one sign of his bad temper and you'll have to pick another horse."

She nods, leaning back against the pillows. "He'll be on his best behaviour," she promises. "Now, you had a book for me?"

He stares at her before handing her the large book. "I'll pick my battles," he says, more to himself. And before Clarke can register it, he leans forward and kisses her on the forehead. He leaves in under three seconds, whether by fate or embarrassment. She's left lying in bed, the book in her hand, staring after him.

* * *

Despite Bellamy's dark predictions, Blaze is a dream to ride. He's right about one thing though: riding is a lot harder than it appears. Her body aches the next day, and she's almost tempted to stay in bed if it weren't for the fact it would please Bellamy. Finally one morning Bellamy offers to take her out from the village, to practice her shooting. He allows her to ride Blaze by herself, and that's when she knows she's good enough.

She slips off Blaze, who goes off with Hosanna, the two of them heading towards a clearing. Blaze goes forward, bucking in pure joy. She watches the two of them break into a gallop, racing each other.

She turns her attention to the trees, wondering whether to ask about aiming for live animals this time. "Are we shooting before we look for the herbs?"

"I had another suggestion." She turns, seeing Bellamy studying her. She's close enough to see his eyes flickering, like he's having an argument with himself. He sighs. "Are you serious about learning how to fight?"

Her heart leaps, but she forces herself to keep her face smooth. She nods.

He heaves a sigh, closing the distance between them in a single breath. "Okay," he says. He's so close to her she can almost feel his pulse. Her mind flashes to the nights in the shared bed, when she could turn and would find herself leaning against him; to that kiss on her forehead, how it lingered against her head like a birthmark. "Then I'll teach you."

"You will?" Her voice comes out in a squeak, and she clears her throat.

He nods, eyes sombre. "I'm not kidding around though: you have to do exactly what I tell you. And I'm not going to go easy on you either. It'll hurt."

"I need to learn. Someone tried to poison us, and whether it was the Northern tribe or someone else, they could try again. If they do, I want to be ready."

She sees a flicker of something in his eyes – pride, maybe a bit of respect. "Okay." He backs off and circles her. "Take off your jacket," he says, shedding his own. "Don't make it easier for them to grab hold of you." When she does he pauses, facing in front of her. "Show me what you've got."

Clarke almost thinks it's a trick, but he doesn't move – doesn't even lift his hands in defence. She puts herself in a fighting stance like she's seen Octavia do, and aims a punch at him.

She is on her back in two seconds. The air rushes out of her lungs and she wheezes, but the sight of his foot over her neck makes her freeze. He raises her eyebrows at her. "I could squash the air out of you in a minute; I'd probably break all the bones in your throat."

"Actually, I think you mean the oesophagus." She takes a deep breath, the air seeming to finally get back in her body. "Is this supposed to make me feel better?"

"No. It's supposed to make you take this seriously. You could be killed in an instant." He lifts his foot off, dropping a hand down to help her up. "We'll start from the beginning."

The first thing he teaches her is defensive moves. The hip throw is the first one. He explains that when someone punches you, you should grab them with the opposite arm and whirl into their body, your back against their chest; keeping hold of the arm, you bend your legs and lift the person up, dropping them to the floor. Once on the ground you stamp on their face, and then put it on their neck to keep them down.

It takes time. The problem is when she has to throw him, he's too heavy. "I'm not," he corrects. "The hip throw isn't about strength; it's about skill." He pauses, her back pressed against him as she struggles. "You're more likely to pull a muscle in my arm than throw me over," he comments.

"Well," she breathes, chest pounding. "That's one way to hurt my opponent."

"Not the right way. Pulling a muscle is nowhere near the same as putting your opponent down." She feels his hand on her back, at the side of her spine. It makes her want to shiver. "You're bending with your back. You need to bend with your legs."

After she masters this, they move onto other moves, mostly defensive. He doesn't train her at the village, only taking her out to practice in the forest. When she asks him about this he says, "If no one knows you can fight, they will underestimate you. And the element of surprise is always the best advantage when fighting."

Towards the end of the training session, she and Bellamy spar. He's getting her to practice the new moves he taught her, but in reality it ends up being a slaughter. Bellamy always wins, and what's worse, he enjoys himself. "One day you'll get the hang of it," he says when he's pinned her for the fifth time. She grits her teeth and tries to throw him off with little success.

The sun is going down, and Bellamy agrees to one last spar before they head back. As usual he dominates, avoiding Clarke's attacks like a well-choreographed dance. She swings her arm round but he dodges, catches her foot with his and tips her backwards; she tries to balance herself by moving her other foot back, but she's unsteady and he shoves her on the floor. He smirks down at her. It's hot, and they're sweating; she can see it glistening across his forehead. "I think we're done," he says.

She can't catch her breath. "Yeah, I think so."

"Let's go back," he says. He's turned away to whistle for the horses, so he doesn't see Clarke wince. He hears her gasp though, and jerks his head when he sees her stumble. "Clarke?"

"I'm okay, it's just-" She tries to stand, but grabs her side with another gasp. Her knees give way, and she lands on the ground.

He is by her side in a moment. "What hurts? Clarke?"

With all her energy, she elbows him. She was going for the throat, but she thinks she might have actually got his face; still, she'll take it, and she doesn't hesitate in leaping on top of him, pinning him to the ground.

He's in shock; he doesn't react until she's on top, and the only thing he can do is blink. He's bleeding from the lip, and the healer in Clarke wants to mop it up; but instead she's fighting a grin, and not very successfully. "You know, you really should never let your guard down," she says, repeating his first rule, the one he's drummed into her.

It clicks, and despite the fact she's beaten him, he grins. "And do you remember the second rule?"

"In battle, things can turn in a second." She remembers that, even when you've pinned you opponent, they can still pull you backwards with their legs. She makes sure she's leaning too far forward, putting all her weight down on his shoulders and wrists. "I think that means I win."

"Alright alright, it's still about a hundred to one."

"More like twenty to one." She bends down closer, her mouth positioned above his face. "You're going to have to get used to being in this position."

She feels him tense underneath her, and it takes a second for her to understand: her body is pressed against him, her head – her _lips_ – right above his. Just like when she was cleaning his face, people in this position are normally doing different things. She instantly wishes she had said something else to him.

The sunlight is fading, the flowers are blooming on the ground. She thinks back, months before she even arrived in the village, when she dreamed of making love in a forest – with no fear, where no one would walk in on her, where she wouldn't constantly be on the alert. Her mind goes there now, plays the dream in her head, but instead of picturing Finn underneath her – his face now blurred, and she finds she's unable to remember how broad he was – she sees Bellamy. She wants to feel the beads of sweat on his chest; imagines his hands on her hips, her back arching as he leans forward -

She leaps to her feet before Bellamy sees her face.

* * *

"' _Cause I'm on fire like a thousand suns  
I couldn't put it out even if I wanted to;  
These flames tonight  
Look into my eyes and say you want me, too  
Like I want you..."_

Ross Copperman, _Hunger_

* * *

* This line was inspired by Damon and Elena from _The Vampire Diaries_. I love this couple (if you go far enough on my profile, you'll find it used to be all about Damon and Elena) and am already missing them after the season 6 finale. I find that Bellamy and Clarke share some similarities between Damon and Elena.

 **A/N:** As usual:

1) I had such a laugh writing Clovis, I hope you had one too. Any other bits made you giggle?

2) So we saw a lot of arguments between Bellamy and Clarke in this chapter, and a lot of development in their relationship. What did you think of their interactions so far? Which bit was your favourite?

3) So, again the quotes (yes I know, I know, but I love quotes). Firstly I love Neil Gaiman, though I've only read one of his books ( _Stardust_ ) and I thought the quote really suited the situation Bellamy and Clarke were in. And ever since the last Damon and Elena scene, I have been in love with the song _Hunger_. I think it really fits Bellamy and Clarke too, especially at the end of this chapter. What do you guys think?

4) I'm enjoying the fact that Clarke's getting stronger; I think this chapter is definitely a turning point for her character. Are you guys pleased?

5) So again, I will try to update in a week's time. But just so you guys know, the next chapter will be the last one, and the story will be complete. I'm kinda gutted because I've loved writing this story; but along with short chapters, I also dislike stories that go on and on when they could easily come to a natural ending. I hope you guys are okay with that. If it makes you feel better, the next chapter has A LOT happening.

So once again, thank you so much for the reviews! Please keep letting me know what you think of this story – since it's my 100th story, it means a whole lot to me, and I really would like your input. Thanks again!

* * *

 **Hours to make. Seconds to comment.**

 **PLEASE REVIEW!**


	5. Chapter Five

**A/N:** I was thoroughly convinced I wouldn't get this chapter to you today. I have been having trouble with it, and sometimes it's felt like I'm dragging a screaming child through a shop. But tonight I sat down and finally – FINALLY – managed to edit it, and finish it. Honestly, I could have posted the chapter up last night, but it was nowhere near as good as it is now.

So...the last chapter. I love this story, and I'll be sad to finish it. But it's the right time. Plus, it's by far the longest chapter of the entire story, and plenty happens in it. I hope you all like it.

And though I'll get to this at the end – over **thirty** reviews for the last chapter? **WOW.** Seriously, wow. I cannot thank you all enough for your kind words and encouragement. I love getting reviews, even criticisms, and I am so pleased that a lot of you care enough to write them. So, though I will say it again, thank you.

Now...

 **Summary:** "I am going to offer you a deal. Your companion can be taken back, left close to your city, and go free. He will be unharmed. In return, you have to agree to join our tribe." An AU story where Clarke stumbles upon a Grounder tribe. In return for sparing the life of her boyfriend, she has to go with them as part of their tribe. Reluctantly she agrees, though it doesn't mean that she has to like it, particularly their leader, Bellamy Blake. Bellarke story with some Linctavia.

* * *

 **DISCLAIMER:** **I do NOT own** _ **The 100**_ **or any of the characters; I also do not own any quotes/poetry/lyrics used in this fic.**

* * *

 **Bravery**

* * *

" _And how can I stand here with you,  
And not be moved by you?"_

Lifehouse, _Everything_

* * *

 **XIV**

* * *

"Tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"How you became King."

He looks away, and she wonders what exactly he is hiding. Shame? Embarrassment? Maybe even a little bit of pride? He's taken her out of the village again, in the joint purpose of teaching her how to ride, how to shoot, and how to spar. Blaze, still on his best behaviour, is a little distance away, ears flicking forward as he listens to them.

She waits, toying with her bow.

"Okay," he says finally, looking back at her. Her chest lightens, but only for a second before he adds, "As long as you tell me about your home."

She wants to step back, but doesn't. "You already know about it."

"Not about your life," he points out. "Is that fair? You already know more about my past than I know about yours." When she can't find an answer, he tilts his head. "Let's go back."

He starts making his way towards the horses. She has no intention of telling him about her home, but her feet spin round without her control, and she hears herself say, "Okay."

He turns round, his eyebrows quirking. She's taken him by surprise. "You mean it?"

She nods, and it's only when she does that she realises how much she wants to know about Bellamy's past. He pauses before walking towards her, slowly, like a hunter stalking prey. "Tell me," he says, using her words. She can see by his expression that he doesn't believe her.

Her tongue feels twice as big, her throat so swollen she can't believe she can get words out. But her mouth moves, and they do come out, no matter how much her chest begins to ache. "For a long time, I was living happily with my family. I knew about the rules that the government placed on us, but it was like – all the bad stuff happened, it happened to _other_ people. People who were evil, who wanted to attack the government, who wanted to destroy the peace we had. Even when parents of kids in my class were killed, I never thought that perhaps they could be innocent. I thought they were traitors." She makes a noise, a laugh or a whimper. She's not entirely sure. "When I look back, I'm so ashamed of who I was.

"I judged other people, but my family was actually the one that was breaking the rules. Not my mom, my dad. When she was out my dad would show me his books – books that the government banned. These books, they were like yours – fairytales and histories, things like that. Looking from the government's point of view, these books promoted dreams and rebellion. They were worried that they would inspire people to want more, and lead to another Great War. So they banned a lot of them.

"But my father loved to read. I don't even know how he managed to get hold of them. He hid them under the floorboards in his room, and when my mom would leave the house he would show them to me. For years he read me stories, and for a while I didn't even realise it was illegal. I just thought Mom didn't like them. He made me swear to keep the secret, and I did. I thought it was just a great bit of fun. I didn't know that my father was breaking the law.

"It was only when I was sixteen that it all fell apart. By that point I knew something was wrong with what my father was doing. I didn't know what to do. Who could I tell? In the cities, pure suspicion is enough to execute people. But..." She looks away. "But even knowing this, I showed them to my mom.

"I don't even know why I did it. She didn't tell me anything at the time, just told me to put them back and stop looking at them. I knew she was upset..." She can still see her mother's tight lipped face, the worried pinched on her face. "I never really got the full story of what happened – why she told someone, or if she meant for it happen, or what. The next thing I knew, policemen were storming into the house and arresting my father in the middle of the night. They took him away, and they took me too."

She looks away again, wants to close her eyes. But it doesn't take away the sight of the dirty police cell, the scent of piss, vomit and fear entering her nostrils from the very air she breathed. She was kept in there for an entire day, but it felt like weeks. Almost every minute she was in there, she was trembling.

She feels him before she sees him. His hands take hers, squeezing them. "Clarke," he whispers, and then stops. For once, Bellamy Blake is actually speechless. She would laugh if it wasn't...

She holds onto him, and it helps stop the shaking in her voice. "Our trial was the next day. My father was sentenced to death via t-the..." The image comes in her head, but instead of fighting it she closes her eyes, lets it overwhelm her. "The electric c-chair." Her breathing quickens, and the images are coming faster and faster. Her father, being strapped in. The ways his eye scanned the room until they found her. How his last smile made her think of the flowers in fields, beginning to bloom.

She only realises that she's been crying when her throat begins to ache. Bellamy has her in his arms, and she doesn't feel any hint of awkwardness as she sobs into his chest. It takes minutes before she slows down, before the tears fall silently.

"They came to me then-"

"Clarke, we don't have to talk about this." His face is scrunched up. "I shouldn't have asked."

She wipes her eyes on her shirt. "This is good Bellamy. I've never spoken about it to anyone – everyone in my class, all my friends knew what happened. It hurts, but – it's a good pain." Like setting a broken arm – once you've gone through the pain, you get better. Bellamy looks like he disagrees, but he doesn't say anything more.

"They came to me after they killed my father. My father and I were guilty of the same crime, so we had the same trial. That's why I was there when they killed him." She sees a spark in Bellamy's eyes at that. She knows he would never force a child to witness their parent's execution.

"There were people who wanted to kill me too. But my mom pleaded my case. She claimed that since I had told her about the books, I was on their side. She pointed out that I wasn't even eighteen. They were reluctant, but they let me go.

"I spiralled. I was furious with my mother, and the only thing I wanted was to punish her. I disobeyed her, stopped helping out in the hospital, avoided her. That's why I left the city. I wanted to worry her, to make her think I was never coming back. Of course," she says with a muted chuckle. "I never knew that would actually happen."

He's been watching her while she speaks, his faced closed. "I don't get it."

"What don't you get?"

"After that happened to you, why would you ever want to go back? They killed your father."

Tears begin to fill her eyes again. " _I_ killed my dad Bellamy."

He grabs hold of her then. "No Clarke. It wasn't your fault."

"Yes it is. If I hadn't told my mom, he would never have been killed. We would have kept going as we were, and my dad would have still been alive-"

Her breathing grows rapid. He grips her shoulders. "Don't you remember what you said to me? That it's not my fault when people die. It's the fault of the murderer – it's the same with you. They chose to murder him, not you. You didn't want this."

"And don't you remember what you said? That it _was_ your fault." She can't even see his face anymore through the tears. "My dad trusted me, and I betrayed him."

He hugs her again. "It's not your fault. And yeah, maybe you'll never believe it because you're like me. But it wasn't your fault. And your dad loves you, no matter what happened."

"You don't know that," she whispers, her throat aching.

His voice is low when he answers. "I do know that. If he's everything you claim, he would never stop loving you."

* * *

Her parents' bedroom used to be her favourite place, her safe place. But like all safe places, eventually they cease to exist. After her father had been killed, she could barely allow herself to step into the room anymore. When she came here, she was convinced she would never feel secure again. But to her surprise, she has a safe place. Even more amazingly, it ends up being Bellamy's room.

These days, she finds herself going to bed earlier and earlier. She and Bellamy don't always go up together, but there's not much time between them.

From then it varies. Bellamy has taken to teaching her history. A tedious subject at home, Bellamy speaks with such enthusiasm that she can't help but get into it. He loves most periods, but the Greeks and the Romans are his favourites, telling her the legends and stories; and he can talk for hours about the kings and queens of Europe. He likes to hear her questions and explain the answers. He speaks with his hands, and sometimes she just asks him something to watch them move, the animation on his face.

It's because of that she begins to sketch. She takes some paper and pencils and begins to draw again. She tells Bellamy that she only draws the things she sees outside, the stuff in her imagination. She doesn't tell him that she's specifically stayed up later than him so she can draw him when he's asleep. He's so still at night, that it's the only time she would be able to draw him. She hides them away, because she doesn't know what he'll do if he finds them.

Other times they read. Sometimes they talk about the books, but mostly they are lost in their own worlds. The books fill her mind with so many possibilities, and she loses hours thinking up ideas and plans. She thinks of how methodical she used to be back home, and she wants to laugh at how her thoughts how changed. Now, she actually dreams.

Most of the time, she and Bellamy talk. Ruling is such a huge part of his life that it takes up a lot of his mind. Clarke likes to ask him about it, and after a little while he responds. She's not sure if he's meant to tell her about this, and maybe that's why he takes so long to open up about it. But he does, and she hears about the subjects of the meetings. Justin and Kat are arguing that the Northern tribe need teaching a lesson. They are convinced it was them who attacked.

"He had the nerve to tell me to send in soldiers," Bellamy snarls. He tears his shirt off, throwing it to the side. Clarke is sitting by the fire. She had been lightly dozing, but she hadn't wanted to go to bed without him. He had only arrived five minutes ago, and he had not stopped talking about the meeting. "Told me that I was being weak." He makes a noise, something between a snort and a growl. "Told me I should man up. In a _council_ meeting. Which, in case you didn't know, means you have to show some level of respect."

"So you're not sending people in."

"Of course not," he snorts. "We have no proof. But now it has the added bonus of annoying Justin."

She watches as Bellamy paces up and down, a scowl on his face. "You don't think the Northern tribe tried to poison us, do you?"

Her words catch him. He looks at her, and she can tell he's trying to decide whether or not to tell her. "No," he says finally. "I don't."

She peers up at him. "Tell me."

He sighs, sitting down by the fire next to her. It lights up the right side of his face, and she imagines the left side of hers looks the same. _Like we match_ , she thinks absently.

"I asked _Babaduo_ about the type of the poison they could have used," he says quietly. "I wish I had kept the wine now, it would have helped me identify it. I told her what happened when it was spilled, and I told her it didn't smell or change the colour of the wine. She's not entirely sure, but she thinks it could have been the chameleon flower. The flower is really beautiful, like pure white. But they are deadly poisonous. They're named the chameleon flower because once the petals are placed in a drink, they dissolve and take on the colour. They don't smell – they're practically undetectable."

She sits a little straighter. "How can you even tell?"

"By doing what we did," he says. "Pour the wine on a little bit of food. It'll dissolve it the instant it touches, which shows you what it'll do to your insides. But the point is, that flower isn't common. In fact it's quite rare."

She feels her stomach sink a little. "As in, only around here."

He nods. "That doesn't mean that the Northern tribe couldn't have done it. Someone could have gathered it on the trip down here. But since it's not found near them, it's not likely they would know it would be poisonous."

"So you think someone in the village tried to kill us."

"Yes."

"Justin?"

"Maybe. Again, I have no proof."

"So you aren't going to ask him?"

He snorts. "Would he admit it? Killing a king or queen is the worst form of treason. He would be sentenced to death."

"But – you're not going to do anything?"

"I've got a few guards keeping an eye on him. Discreetly, of course." He sighs. "What I really need is an assassin."

Her hands clench so hard she leaves nail marks in her skin. "He could _kill_ you Bellamy. And you're not going to do anything about it? Why the hell not?"

"I have no _proof_ Clarke." His own voice is rising.

"So?"

" _So?_ I can't banish or imprison someone for no reason. That's not the kind of place I want to live in, and I don't want people remembering me that way."

His voice is earnest, and it makes Clarke look at him a little more deeply. "Tell me."

"What?"

"What happened to you. How did your family become royalty – how did you become King? What happened in the war?"

He rolls his eyes. "You don't ask for much, do you?"

"I told you about my past Bellamy. That was weeks ago. Don't you think it's time for you to return the favour?"

She watches him run a hand through his hair, avoiding her gaze. A part of her wishes she could do the same. She almost does, lifting her arm.

It is several minutes before Bellamy speaks. "Have you seen _Babaduo's_ house?" She nods. "Well, that was where my entire family lived. My mom, my dad, my grandparents – my dad's parents. When I was seven, an illness spread through the village and my mom, dad and grandfather died. So _Babaduo_ raised us.

"Not that we had a bad childhood. To be honest, Octavia and I never wanted anything. We had _Babaduo_ , and we had each other. There are so many days that Octavia and I would spend by the river, nights where we would sneak out of the house and count the stars." A smile creeps up on his face, staring in the distance, and she feels a rush in her chest. " _Babaduo_ never caught us, but I think she knew.

"I was seventeen when we finally went to war with the Northern tribe. Tensions had been high for ages, and it finally erupted. There had been a number battles – but the last one was the biggest." He glances over at her. "It was just below the mountain. Y'know the one to the west? We were ambushed by the Northern tribe's army. It – it was one of the biggest armies I had seen. It outnumbered us two to one.

"I don't know if I would have lasted. I was doing okay, but I had been cut pretty badly-"

"Under your arm?"

His eyes flutter over to her. She feels heat crawl over her face. She wasn't meant to have been looking at his body. And – it's not as if she _meant_ to, or anything. They share a bed for God's sake. It's impossible for her not to have seen it, the line stretching down from his armpit right to his hip.

A smile brushes across his face. "Yeah, that one. I was bleeding out, and I'm not sure that I would have made it. I was fighting someone else when – when a landslide came down. The rocks swept down, like a giant hand was pushing them on us. And I don't mean just a few rocks – it felt like half the mountain was coming down. Afterwards it was like someone had taken a huge chunk from it. To this day we don't know whether it was a trick by the Northern tribe that went horribly wrong or some loose stones or an act of the gods.

"I don't know how it happened, but even though I was buried under rock like everyone else – I only had a few bruises. I was the farthest away from the mountain, so I was caught by the last of the rocks. I was only lightly buried underneath them, so I was able to push my way out. I was the only one."

"You mean-" She blinks, leans forward. "You were the only survivor?"

He gives a jerk of the head. "I can still remember standing up and looking round. There were a few moans, but no one moved. It was like something out of a story, where a magician placed everyone under a sleeping curse. Everyone was dead, including our king – including their king.

"So when I went back, I became a hero. The battle had destroyed most of the Northern tribe's army. Yeah, it took out ours too, but we'd held more men back, a disaster at the beginning of the battle that ironically ended up better for us. They needed peace, and so we met and eventually agreed for negotiations."

"You still haven't told me how you became King," she reminds him. "How do you decide something like that anyway?"

He rubs his nose. "Usually it follows the bloodline, like the kings and queens from the past. But public opinion matters more here. If people don't have faith in their leader, then they won't rule."

"And you said Justin's family had a good claim?"

Bellamy nods. "He was almost certainly the next king. But there was a public outcry, and people demanded that I become the ruler." There is a tinge of redness of his face, and his smile is slightly bashful. "Like I said, we value bravery. Both tribes went to the site of the battle to bring home their dead – people were amazed that I managed to survive. They claimed that I was chosen to rule by the gods." He shrugs, turning away. "I hadn't been expecting it. I'm not sure..." His voice lowers, so she has to struggle to hear him. "I'm not even sure that I'm happier now than I was when I was poor."

She moves then, placing her hand over his. She knows what it's like to have your childhood snatched away in the blink of an eye, to know that you can never reverse the changes that have occurred. "Did you never think of refusing?"

"You don't refuse to be king. I was living in a little hut with _Babaduo_ and Octavia; now I have the biggest house in the village. Now I make all the decisions. Now I get the first of everything."

His words don't match his face.

"Besides, Octavia is better protected. She would never have been able to marry someone like Lincoln if I hadn't been King. And I wouldn't have been able to save you."

She meets his eyes. They don't look away from each other. Instead Clarke feels her body shift towards him. She doesn't know what surprises her more: the fact that she is moving towards him, or that she feels his body reacting the same way. Before she knows it, she is so close that she can feel his breath on her face. Her entire body is tense, and she swears that if she just _breathes_ she'll kiss him. She can feel the heat radiating from his body, and she finds her fingers are itching to touch his skin, to feel his heartbeat echo from his chest against her palm –

The crack of a branch against the window makes them both leap apart. She glances back at Bellamy before quickly dropping her eyes to the floor. "I should-"

"We should get to bed." Bellamy glances away from her too, and she quickly turns her back to him as she crawls in between the sheets. A second later she feels him on the mattress. Even though they're used to facing each other, she doesn't feel like she can do that tonight.

One night she's dozing by the fire again, though it's finally beginning to get warm. Bellamy's late, and she's been reading poetry (Carol Ann Duffy, because there's still no better poet than her in Clarke's mind). She must fall asleep because when she wakes up Bellamy is in front of her. He's on the floor, leaning back against the sofa.

"When did you come in?" Her voice is low; she doesn't have the energy to raise it.

"A little while ago." He turns his head slightly. "I didn't want to wake you up."

She feels herself smile.

"I have a question." He turns properly now, looking across. "What's the deal with the mark on your hip?"

"The-" She sits up. Her hand moves down to dark circle on her side.

"Yeah. I always wondered. It looks like a pretty bad burn."

"It was." She glances down at her knees. She never thought of telling anyone about it, but she and Bellamy – they talk. And she trusts him. "It was punishment for what happened with my dad. They spared me, but they branded me with this mark. They do it with all the people they let go, to show that they've burnt through their first chance." She tries to say it lightly, but her voice is thick.

His gaze has hardened, like ice freezing over the ground. "Why would you want to go back to those people?"

"My mom's there, and my friends. They're – they're my family."

He is searching her expression. She would have thought he would blow up after her words, but there's something else – like he's looking for something on her face. He lifts his shoulders. "Let's go to bed."

But before he blows out the candle, he pauses. When she feels his hand on her body she freezes. She thinks – she _knows_ – Bellamy won't hurt her, but he's never touched her like this before: palm spread out over her skin, a claim, an ownership. She watches his dark head bend, a flexible branch of a tree, and feels his lips on her skin over the mark.

It tingles when he moves away.

It's after he blows the candle out and the room is dark, lit only by the fading fire, that she says thank you. "My pleasure," he says, and that's the end of it.

* * *

 **XV**

* * *

Spring is brighter than ever, and every morning Clarke wakes up with a sense of excitement. She loves the way the world around her changes, unlike the city she came from. She likes the feel of the grass in her hands, and Bellamy teases her by bringing her blades of it in the evenings. Then yellow daisies that grow on the sides near the boundary of the village. Then the very first apple of the tree, red and fresh that when she bites into it the juice dribbles down her chin. She likes these gifts, and thinks he likes bringing them to her. As far as she knows it's just between them, but she notices Octavia observing them one night at dinner. After that there is a little smile on her face, and her eyes remind Clarke of laughter.

Clarke tries to ignore it. She also tries to ignore that, at night, they move closer to one another. Sometimes she can feel Bellamy's breath against the back of her neck. Other times she lets her arm stretch across his stomach, inwardly shivering when she feels the muscles against her arm. She likes the way she can feel his stomach rising and falling, the way it lifts her too.

Early one morning Cora comes over. Clarke is in the kitchen, brewing tea. "There you are," says Cora, moving easily into the kitchen. "We're out of the feverfew herb. I was hoping you and Bellamy could collect them today, if you're not too busy."

It never ceases to amaze Clarke that Cora knows exactly who she's talking to. "I don't mind. I'm a good rider now, and I'd like to see some of the greenery. What's wrong?" she asks when she sees the look on Cora's face.

The woman shakes her head. "I was certain that we had plenty of feverfew. You know I keep it in large supply, because it's treats so many things. But I swear, there's none."

"It doesn't matter," says Clarke. "Give us a list and we'll get whatever you need."

She does so and Clarke writes them down, now easily recognising the herbs by sight. But Cora's still wearing a frown on her face, and she asks the woman what's wrong.

"I feel this is more than just a trip for herbs," Cora murmurs finally. Those white eyes lift to Clarke, scanning her face. "I'm not quite sure... It's just out of my reach... For you and for Bellamy..."

Clarke's first thought is that Cora is faking it; that Octavia's said something and she's trying to push her and Bellamy together. But she quickly dismisses that theory, because it simply isn't Cora. "Are these visions of yours real?"

The woman smiles. "You're not the first one to ask me that. Octavia believes me, especially since I predicted her relationship with Lincoln. Bellamy doesn't – he's never had much faith in the things he can't see. Though perhaps that's changing," she says, eyeing Clarke. "Most of the villagers don't believe me, and that's fine Clarke. I'm happy."

"Do you have visions then?"

Cora gives a minute shake of the head. "It's more like a feeling. I can't explain it, but it's a very powerful thing. When I was a little girl they used to terrify me. It was only when I was a teenager I finally began to understand what they might mean." She lifts her head again. "Be careful Clarke. I don't like this vision, but...it's strange...it feels like it's a journey you need to make.

* * *

Cora's words take some of the beauty out of the trip. She told Bellamy who waved his grandmother's concerns away. " _Babaduo_ is always having these 'visions'. Don't worry about them." Still, they trouble her, and she knows Bellamy can see it. "C'mon Clarke," he says, a hint of frustration in his tone. "Look at how beautiful it is!" He gestures and Clarke can't stop the little smile on her face. There are blossoms on the trees, pink, and she lifts her hand up to stroke them. A shower of petals fall down, catching in her hair.

"What do we need?"

"Feverfew, peppermint and butterbur," she replies, remembering Cora's list.

Bellamy jumps down from Hosanna. "I know what peppermint looks like."

"Oh really?" Clarke lifts an eyebrow, attempting to suppress a smile. "The last time I let you pick the herbs by yourself, you nearly walked into a bunch of poison ivy."

"I know what poison ivy looks like," Bellamy replies, turning his head. "I was too busy listening to your boring explanation to watch where I was going."

"Whatever you say," she says, still smiling.

"I'll find the mint-"

" _Pepper_ mint Bellamy."

"-and you go find the others. Come back when you've got them."

She feels her spine straighten at his words. "I can go on my own?"

He half-turns, hands fiddling with some leaves he's picked up from the ground. "I assume you can find your way back?" he asks, lifting his own eyebrow. "If not, Blaze will be able to find the village. Go get the other herbs." His words are authoritative, but it's his tone that is soft, and when he turns his back it's a little hunched, not like his proud stature.

She pushes Blaze into a trot, and goes through a clump of trees, in the direction where she knows some feverfew will be. She turns back, but Bellamy is nowhere near her. She kicks Blaze into a canter, and the two of them fly down through the trees, and she allows Blaze to gallop when they get to a clearing. Once they're back under the shelter of the branches she pulls him up, listening. All she can hear are birds. There's no sound of Bellamy tearing off to catch up with her.

He's letting her go.

Is he aware of what he's doing? But Clarke dismisses that theory: Bellamy's no fool. He's spent so long keeping her in the village, there's no way he would just forget to keep an eye on her.

He's testing her.

She turns Blaze in the direction of her home, the city, and she knows she should push Blaze harder. She'll let him go a few miles before she gets back. She knows that the authorities will be all over her, but she won't tell them where the village is; it won't be hard to convince them that she has no idea where it is, that she stumbled back to the city by good fortune. And she can see her mom again. And Raven. And Monty and Jasper. And Finn.

So why isn't she going faster?

Her muscles seem to stiffen up, and she couldn't nudge Blaze on if she wanted to. She's going back – going _home_. She'll see her bedroom, go to medical school, live the life that she had planned out so carefully.

She'll be in the city again. Unable to leave the boundaries. Careful of what she says in case other people report her. Stuck reading books with boring storylines – and no poetry. No freedom of thought.

She won't be able to practice using her arrows anymore. There won't have any horses to go riding on either. And they'll be no swimming in the river, and rushing round the village, or lying in an empty field staring up at the sky, surrounded by flowers. No blades of grass. And she probably won't have time to bake either, which is a shame, because she finally made the perfect loaf of bread last week: not too doughy and risen perfectly. It was stupid, but she was really pleased: Cora was impressed, and Bellamy said that he hadn't tasted better –

She'll never see them again: Links with his cheeky smile and kind eyes, or John the healer with his cool, careful hands – and when he tells you you've done a good job, you know he means it because he rarely says it. She'll never see Lincoln and Octavia get married, never watch them start a family. She thinks of Octavia, who makes her laugh so much, who's become – become a friend. And she'll miss Cora. In some respects, she's been a mother to her here. And Bellamy –

She thinks of all those nights in bed together. The mornings when she would wake up before him, the sunlight glinting through curtains. His face would be soft, mouth slightly open. He usually slept with his arms above his head, and at some point they've begun stretching towards her. And sometimes, when she's between sleep and consciousness, she thinks of reaching out and twining her fingers in between his and pressing her lips to them. Press her lips on his.

Last week, when she was looking at him, his eyes slit open. Still misty from sleep, they held each other's gazes. It wa few moments when Clarke realised that they had been staring at each other longer than normal. She was acutely aware of how close their bodies were to each other. There was something about him then that made him so... Maybe it was because she rarely ever saw him so relaxed when he was awake, his expression smooth instead of creased with annoyance or worry...

Back in the city, she'll sleep alone. And even though that's what she's wanted for so long – what she's claimed to want – she feels a stabbing in her stomach and chest, so painful that she almost doubles over in her saddle.

The realisation strikes her, as powerful and unsubtle as a bolt of lightning. She doesn't want to go back. She wants to stay.

Sensing her mood Blaze pauses, and his head turns, nuzzling the tip of her boot. She leans forward to stroke him, eyes staring aimlessly forwards. "When did this happen?" she asks the stallion. "When did I begin to love this life?"

Blaze's brown eyes stare at her, almost in condescension, as if he's saying, _took you long enough._

She whirls the stallion round, and he's only too glad to gallop back towards Bellamy. She's not sure what it is, but laughter is bubbling in her chest, and she wants to burst out with it – wants to scream out loud, throw her hands in the air. It's the right decision, she knows it because the second she made it, she couldn't wait to return. She wants to throw her arms round Bellamy and give him a hug, wants to find Octavia and dance with her, wants to listen to all of Cora's stories and learn the ways of their people – her people. And yet now there's no rush, no ticking clock; now she has all the time in the world.

Blaze leaps into the area where Bellamy was, and Clarke, breathless, has a grin on her face. But he's not there.

"Bellamy!" She glances round, and unable to sit still, leaps off Blaze. "Bellamy!" She goes through the trees, searching for him. Perhaps he's gone to find her. She debates on doubling back, when she remembers what Bellamy had been teaching her about tracking. She glances down at the ground. There are no prints, and yet... She bends down, peering closer at them. There are long marks, dug hard in the dirt, like someone's being dragged, like –

\- like a sign of a struggle.

Her breath catches, and at the same second she hears a shuffling behind her. She whips round, but she's been caught off-guard, and he pins her down on the ground with ease.

Justin. She knew it; could feel it in her blood. His hands pin her down, and she tries to lift them up with no success.

"I wondered where you were." He grins, and her stomach feels like it convulses at the sight.

"Where's Bellamy?"

The corner of Justin's mouth hitches up. She hates him, in that second she knows it, with such certainty that she would dagger him without another thought. "We went down to the river and he had...an accident."

 _Bellamy._ She lunges for him, and he has to put his entire weight down on her. "What did you do to him, you bastard – if you've hurt him-"

"What are you going to do?" He runs a finger down the side of her face; she snaps at it, and he jerks his hand away. "I've always wondered what was different about you. Did you know Bellamy's never come close to even having a girlfriend ever since he became King? Then you came along. So what gives? What do you do for him?"

She can barely hear his words; there is a buzzing in her ears. "You couldn't be half the king that he is."

A frown appears on his face, the look of a sulky child. "We'll just see, won't we? When they come looking and find your bodies, they won't know what to do. Everyone will be in shock. It'll be easy for me to slip into the role of King." He pulls a knife from his belt and presses it against her neck. She barely breathes. She can feel the point pressing against her skin. "Any last words, Princess?"

She mutters under her breath.

"What was that?" He bends closer.

She jerks her head forward, smacking her forehead right against his. He's taken by surprise, and quickly moves backwards, shifting his weight. Knowing she has only seconds, she lifts her legs and pushes them in front of his body, yanking him backwards. She's up now, and she goes for Justin –

He moves fast, and is on his feet. He already has a blade, but she finds that she's not worried. She's not scared of him. Instead she feels her blood racing through her body, feels energy that she's never had before. _Rage_. That's what it is. That's why she wants to smash Justin's face in. That's why she wants to wrap her hands round his neck and squeeze. _Bellamy._

She doesn't remember what Bellamy's taught her, but she thinks it's better that way. She's not thinking about what moves to use, how to play to her strengths – all she's thinking is that she wants him dead. He's using his knife – he catches her on the side of her arm, but it just feels like a twig. She's dodging him and getting hits in. She actually catches him in the face, and feels a satisfying crack. He grabs her arm and swings her round. She thinks he's about to fling her to the floor, but she uses her elbow, catches him in the soft part of his stomach. Coupling that with putting her foot behind his leg, she manages to off-balance him.

She ducks away from him, leaping over a fallen log. The ground towards the river slopes downstairs, and she rolls, using gravity to push her down. She's not running, but her mind keeps straying towards Bellamy – _Bellamy_. Maybe – maybe she can save him. Surely – Bellamy wouldn't go down without a fight, she knows that.

"Princess." She hears Justin's voice, cooing, calling for her. She pushes herself faster, needing to get to the river. She hears a slicing through the air, remembers Bellamy throwing his knife, and hurls herself to the ground. It catches her on the shoulder, but because she's ducked it doesn't stick in. It slides to the floor, and she grabs hold of it before she pulls herself up again.

She hears running water, and by the time she reaches the river she is panting. Her eyes fly across the shore, then going farther out – nothing. She doesn't see Bellamy's body floating, doesn't see him lying unconscious on shore – he's not there.

Her heart begins to race. Would Justin have tied him down to something to force him under the water? If that's the case then it's too late, way too late –

Justin comes up behind her, but he's not being subtle, and Clarke whirls round and catches him. He lunges, and she falls to the ground, letting him fall on her and then shoving him backwards. She scrambles to her feet, but she's getting tired now. Justin's a good fighter, and he's bigger, stronger. She needs something more –

"Bellamy's dead, Princess." He's in a fighter's stance, dancing on the tips of his feet. "No point trying to look for him." He lifts his hand, wiping blood away from his lip, and despite everything she feels a thrill of satisfaction.

Her entire body feels like it's shaking, right down to her bones. Her throat is tightening and she thinks – _Bellamy's_ dead – and she has to fight not to lose it. It feels like a bad joke: when she finally decides to stay, Bellamy's – it's like someone's punishing her for attempting to leave, for even _thinking_ of leaving.

She knows then that she's going to kill him – kill him or die trying. She can't and won't live in a world where Justin is King. She would rather go back to the city, rather die right here right now then live by his rules.

He is shifting on his feet. "You can't win. I will kill you. Might as well make it easy." His mouth twitches. "Bellamy did."

She lunges, but he's ready: he catches her in the stomach, and the pain is intense, feels like something is tearing. Clarke tightens her grip on the knife and, even though she knows she's going to lose, she raises the knife and prepares to swipe down on him –

Justin's grip on her relaxes, and in a blink he is off her completely. She stumbles backwards, and she's actually grateful that she's fallen, because she knows she wouldn't be able to stand.

"You know what they say about mongrels," Bellamy snarls. "They're tougher than pedigrees." He shoves Justin to the floor. He stamps down on Justin's arm, and the blonde gives a yelp. He should be focusing on him, but Bellamy's head jerks to the side, searching –

Their eyes meet, and she can't help herself – she lets out a little cry. He's bleeding, she can see from his left arm, his face is marred by cuts and blood, and he's sopping wet, soaked to the skin. But he's okay. He's _okay_. He's alive.

Justin uses this distraction: he knocks into Bellamy's leg, on the part behind his knee, and he collapses. Justin is about to leap onto him, but Clarke's behind him, pulls him back. He rolls towards her, his nails scratching along her arm, and this time Bellamy is behind, pulling him upwards.

Justin's face is that of a rabid dog: he hadn't expecting having to fight both of them at the same time. It's harder for him. Bellamy's the better fighter, but Justin's good, and Bellamy's losing blood. Having Clarke going for him too makes it easier.

Justin elbows her in the face and she goes down. He's about to go for her, but Bellamy pulls him back. The two of them begin fighting again, hand-to-hand combat. It's hard for Clarke to watch: her eyes feel like they're spinning. Her head is pounding but she needs to get up, needs to help –

She tries, but her legs are shaky. _Fuck it_ , she thinks. She falls back down, landing on her back –

It feels like her heart stops. She reaches behind her, feeling – how could she be so stupid? She's still got her bow and arrows. She scrabbles, but during the fight she's lost half of them. Other bows have been torn, which might affect their trajectory. She shuffles, and by her count there's only one that's good enough to use.

She draws it back, using her mouth as an anchor, like Bellamy told her. She whistles, low but strong, and Bellamy jerks his head round to look at her. From his position he's blocking her from Justin's view, and with impressive speed he ducks. The second his head lowers, Clarke shoots.

The arrow soars through the air and digs into Justin's chest. The blonde looks up, his face turning thirty shades of white in a moment, and his hand reaches for the arrow. His legs give out underneath him and he falls.

The bow falls to the floor as she races towards him, pushing herself off her knees. He's bleeding, so much, and he's almost unrecognisable because of all the cuts and bruises that are already forming, but he barely seems to notice: he opens his arms, taking a giant step towards her, and she goes to him. It's only when her body hits his, still there, still upright, that the fact he's alive hits her.

"What happened?" she says into his shoulder.

"I was by the river, getting water. He came up behind me, knocked me in the back of my head." When Clarke looks at his face she sees him grimace, annoyed. "I should have been better. I wasn't expecting it. He pushed my face under the water. I couldn't fight back – the only thing I could do was pretend that I was already dead. I thought I was dead. I thought he was going to hold me down for minutes, but then he left-"

"He heard me." Clarke lets out a little laugh. "I was looking for you. He must have decided to get rid of me too-"

"Are you okay?" He pushes her back and she gives a little mew of protest, but he ignores her. He winces. "Fuck, he got you good."

"I got him better."

He half-closes his eyes. "I take back any comment I made about your shooting skills. You have the best aim of any warrior in our village." A laugh, a breath of air, escapes from her mouth, and he lets out a chuckle.

It's her turn to look at him. She lifts her hands, gently touching the side of his face. "Shit," she murmurs. She expects him to wince, but when she looks at him she sees his eyes are still on her face – right on her.

"You saved my life," he murmurs.

She licks her lips, feeling hot under his gaze. "And you saved mine."

But he's shaking his head. "You saved your own life, and mine – because of your bravery." His hand lifts, mirroring hers. "Thank gods I found you."

Only when Justin makes a gurgling sound in the back of his throat do they blink. Bellamy moves to him, and when Clarke gets closer she sees blood running from his mouth. His eyes stare at Bellamy, and he tries to speak. Bubbles burst from his mouth.

"Could you save him?" Bellamy asks lowly, eyes trained on him.

"No," answers Clarke shortly. "And even if I could I wouldn't, and you're an idiot for wanting to."

Bellamy pulls out his knife and, in a quick movement, slits Justin's throat. The boy gurgles for a few more moments, deep red blood pouring out, and then his body stops moving. He closes his eyes and his chest, heaving so heavily, remains still.

"Can't say I'm too sorry," he mutters.

"You've been too kind already," Clarke argues. She reaches again for his face, already thinking of how to fix it. "Let's go home." Bellamy, whose eyes were looking back at Justin, jerks back towards her. They fix on her, and it looks like he's going to say something about it. She waits.

But in the end he just nods. "Home."

That's the best word she's heard in a long time.

* * *

 **XVI**

* * *

Once the decision has been made to stay, the weight on Clarke's chest, the thing holding her back from enjoying herself, is lifted. Now she laughs more, begins to use the knowledge that she's learnt from them, smiles so wide she's using muscles she didn't know she had. She stops measuring time in her head, stops wondering if this will be the last time that she talks to this person.

For the first time, perhaps in her entire life, she begins to live.

And Bellamy is different with her. He loosens his grip on her. He doesn't constantly check up on her, isn't over-shadowing her all the time. She doesn't feel eyes on her back. She moves with ease round the village, and now doesn't even bother glance behind.

She remarks to Bellamy about it one night. "How come you're not checking up on me?"

His eyes are half-closed, leaning against the bed. He shifts them open. "Truth?"

She nods.

He lets out a sigh, straightening. "I was always worried about how you would handle yourself if it came to a fight. I thought you would-" He cuts off, and then shakes his head. "But you fought Justin yourself. You held out against him." He meets her eyes, and she feels a spark in her stomach. "Now I know that you can take care of yourself. You're strong."

She feels a blush rise up on her face at the compliment. "Took you long enough," she jokes. To cover herself, she reaches for the wound on his side. That one was the worst: the blood had been coming through his clothes by the time they got back. When Octavia had seen the two of them – bleeding from multiple areas, yellowing bruises already formed – it had taken the combined forces of Links, Lincoln and Jared to keep her back from going to getting Justin herself. It was only when Bellamy and Clarke had assured her that he was dead that she calmed down.

His eyes are soft, still muzzy from sleep. "It's healing well, don't you think?" he asks, his own hand moving to the stitched wound. There's nothing in his tone, and yet...

Clarke smiles and snuggles closer to him. She doesn't touch him, but rests her head beside him on his pillow. "Provided you don't get attacked any time soon, you should be fine. Perfectly healthy to give your sister away in three days – well, two days time."

Bellamy groans. "Can't you tell them I'm gravely ill and get them to push the wedding back?"

"I think Octavia would drag you down the aisle even if you were on your deathbed. You can't blame her – she's been waiting for what, nine months?"

"Nine months, one week and six days – not that she's been reminding me of it." Clarke laughs, and even Bellamy manages a smile. "I know. My sister's not a little girl anymore. I need to let her go."

There's a mournful tone in his voice, and Clarke sits up, resting her head on her elbow. "C'mon Bellamy. You've got a good deal with Octavia. She's going to be living in the house next door, for God's sake."

"That was one of my better ideas," he admits, unable to stop the corner of his mouth rising.

"And she's marrying Lincoln. He loves her, and you can't ask for more for your sister."

He doesn't answer, but his eyes change, and she knows he's thinking of – and she has to force back a smile. Instead she settles back down on the bed, still feeling his eyes on her.

* * *

The biggest change happens the next day. The wedding is now two days away, and Octavia is buzzing round here and there, making sure everything's going according to plan. One morning Clarke had stumbled downstairs for breakfast to find the entire living room floor covered with flowers of all colours. Octavia and Cora were in the middle of it, along with Bellamy.

"Having fun?" she had called down for the stairs. Bellamy had scowled, only to laugh when Octavia had insisted Clarke come down to help too.

Now though, when she comes downstairs, it's quiet in the living room. Bellamy is at the table, talking with a few members of the guard and another woman, Kat. Clarke recognises her and another as members of the council.

"If we're going to invade, we need to do it now," Kat is insisting.

"I agree," Jared states. "I don't know whether it's a good idea, but if you decide to do it Your Grace, I would suggest we do it soon. The Northern tribe is on the edge. If we attack with a strong army, we have a good chance of winning."

Bellamy's got a frown on his face, a hand on his head. His eyes catch sight of Clarke. "What do you think?"

The people at the table all turn towards her, and she feels the heat rush over her body. "What are you talking about?" she asks. She doesn't like the way Kat's eyes narrow when they land on her. She looks away, seeks solace in Bellamy's gaze.

He doesn't waver. "We're discussing the suggestion to invade the Northern tribe. My spies tell me that civil war is certain to break out any day now. We're debating about whether to take an army and attack. If we can defeat them, we'll have free range for miles. We can have more orchards, and more land to grow food."

"But?"

He lifts his eyebrows, and she can see that he's fighting a grin. He likes that she knows him. If it was that simple, Bellamy would have invaded already. "But it's a risk. The Northern tribe is a lot bigger than us. Even if we did win, we would have a bigger area to look after, and a lot more people. It would cause a lot of issues that we haven't even considered yet."

"Your Grace," begins Kat, but Bellamy holds up a hand.

"You know I'm right Kat. We can't ignore that, even if many of the Northern tribe died, we would still have a much bigger tribe. We would also be in danger of rebellion later, and in a bigger tribe it's always harder to control."

"If we don't take this chance-"

"You said that the Northern tribe are on the brink of civil war?"

Kat glowers at Clarke. "Yes," Bellamy answers, turning back towards her.

"Then I wouldn't invade," she says bluntly. Everyone is looking at her, but she sees a few friendly faces and pushes forward. "If you invade now, you risk uniting the tribe and feeling the full force of their army." She pauses, listening to the muttering of the others. It doesn't feel hostile though, and she strides on. "If you're thinking of invading, I would wait until the civil war is over and a new leader is declared. If it splits into two tribes, then they would be smaller and easier to defeat."

More murmurings, but soft. She sees Bellamy's eyes flicker, and knows he's thinking it through. Someone begins to talk, but Bellamy cuts them off. "I agree. We'll wait and see what happens. It may be worthwhile seeing what leader emerges."

"But Sire-"

"I've made my decision. We'll wait. Now, isn't there a wedding that we should be arranging?" The group of six breaks apart at the dismissal. Kat shoots her a withering glance before she walks away.

"Thanks for pulling me in the middle," she says dryly. "Should I be preparing for another attack?"

"You mean Kat? Nah; she's like that with anyone who disagrees with her. Besides, I wanted to know what you thought."

"Since when?"

"Since now." His face is relaxed, and it allows Clarke reads between the lines: _since you didn't run; since you decided to stay; since you became one of_ us _._ "Maybe you should sit in on a few council meetings."

She does a double-take then. "I'm not on the council Bellamy."

" _Yet_."

She remembers, what she said on the day they met: _"I'm not one of your people."_

" _Yet."_

This time his words don't irritate her. This time, she smiles.

* * *

Octavia's wedding day arrives, all too quickly for Bellamy's liking. The evening before they all have a night in, a family dinner with Cora at the head of the table. Octavia can't sit still, shifting her legs and her fingers dancing across the wood, constantly glancing over at the clock. When her cutlery drops on her plate for the fifth time, Bellamy says, "Can't you control yourself? Gods know what you're going to be like tomorrow."

"Leave her alone," says Clarke. "She's excited, that's all."

"I'm so nervous I can barely eat."

Bellamy's face brightens. "Y'know, if you want to call it off, I'd understand. I'd talk to Lincoln for you-"

"I'm not having second thoughts!" snaps Octavia while Clarke buries her face in her hand, laughing. "I love Lincoln! I want to marry him."

Bellamy scowls, looking away. "Don't blame me if you're regretting it the night after."

"Believe me, I won't be regretting _anything_."

"What?" Bellamy's head snaps upwards.

Octavia simply smiles at her brother, her finger twirling in her hair. "I'm just saying that I love Lincoln and I know I won't regret marrying him." She glances back down at her food, but the corner of her mouth is hitched up, and she looks like she's trying not to laugh.

"We're not cancelling anything," Cora says with finality. "We've spent days getting the hall ready. Someone is getting married if Octavia doesn't." Clarke has to agree, it would be a shame to waste all the work that's gone on setting up the wedding: since mid-spring they've been arranging the hall, and the entire village has been gathering flowers this past week, putting them in baskets and hanging them from the ceiling in the hall. The village is excited; wedding, especially royal weddings, are a village affair.

"Who's coming from the Northern tribe?"

Octavia's face clouds over. "Just his family. We're having them stay for a week."

"Maybe longer," interrupts Bellamy. "I've had word that the fighting has started. I don't think it would be a good idea for anyone to return until it's settled." Clarke sees Bellamy glance over at Octavia, and knows that no matter what he's said, he's glad things have turned out the way they have.

The next morning everyone has to get up early, but at least when Clarke is going through the beauty regimes, Octavia is with her. She tries to distract the girl by pulling faces at the mud as it hardens over her skin, but she's too nervous to pay attention. "He's good, isn't he?" Octavia asks, even though she doesn't wait for an answer. "He's so good and strong, and he loves me."

Octavia goes to put on her dress, and Clarke finds an outfit left for her on the bed (Bellamy of course is overseeing everything, and will probably race in the room ten minutes before he's meant to walk Octavia down the aisle). This dress is stunning: at first glance it looks white, but when she puts it on she sees the hint of pink in it that makes it glitter every time she moves. She loves how cool it is when she wears it, loves how she feels beautiful.

She doesn't see Bellamy until the ceremony. She's sitting at the front with Cora, observing Lincoln at the front. He's wearing a warrior's outfit, and for the first time she can see a few nerves on his face. She debates whether Bellamy would kill him if he walked out on Octavia or if he would hug him.

"How long will the ceremony be?" Clarke asks the woman beside her.

Cora smiles, her long silver hair tied in intricate braids, all the colours of a rainbow. "It's relatively short," she says. "Gods forbid that we spend time on the ceremony when there's dancing and drinking to be done. "

Before she can question her further, the music plays (violins and a piano, which aren't normally used, but Octavia _is_ a princess) and the doors open. She almost has to hold back a gasp when she sees Octavia. She's wearing white, and the dress is made of the finest silk. She has pink flowers in her hair, the symbol of spring – a new beginning. She has never looked so girlish, and Clarke has never seen that type of smile on her face before. She's beaming at Lincoln, and now that the warrior has seen her, he's standing tall. Clarke feels a bubble form in her chest as she looks at them.

Bellamy looks good too. He's dressed in a warrior's outfit as well, but his has a finery that Lincoln's lacks, and there are little flecks of gold dabbed here and there, another symbol. When it's time to give her away, Octavia and Bellamy cling to each other for a long moment, enough so Clarke has to fight back tears (she is _not_ going to cry). Finally Octavia steps forward, and Bellamy settles with her and Cora. Clarke doesn't realise she's reached for his hand until they're holding onto each other. Hard hands, calloused hands – those hands match hers now, blister to blister.

The ceremony begins, and she listens. Cora's right, it's not long. It's entirely in their own language, but now Clarke can keep up easily. They don't talk about husbands and wives; from what Clarke can tell, they are speaking about bloodlines.

She hasn't heard the words since that night, but she recognises them like it was yesterday, poetry passed down throughout the years. They echo deep in her memory, and she sits up straighter. She watches as the knife cuts into their palms, one long line, before they press them together, fingers entwined.

It's all making sense now. Images flash in front of her eyes, all clicking into place.

 _Bellamy's pale face as he lets Cora take his hand –_

Octavia eyes are teary as she looks at Lincoln, palms still held together –

 _Rough hands, rough fingers that press against mine, held –_

Lincoln's smile is soft –

 _His expression is solemn, like he's about to go into battle –_

Now the man performing the ceremony is tearing cloth. He ties it round their hands, over the cuts he's made –

 _The knot is tight as the cloth goes over my hand –_

It's almost over: he's stating that once the wounds have stopped bleeding, they will swap the cloths and wear them always, for as long as their marriage lasts, even after the other has passed on "to the spirit world" as they call it.

 _Bellamy taps his finger over the cloth –_ his _cloth_ – _that he's just tied over my hand. "This stays on," he tells me, a command –_

She lifts her eyes to Bellamy's. He's staring down at her, his expression expecting, eyes still. Beside them, Cora is humming quietly to herself.

The ceremony ends, and in a swift movement Lincoln and Octavia face the crowd. Holding hands, they lift them up in the air. The people are on their feet, cheering, and the two of them stand without thinking. They're clapping, but not once do Bellamy and Clarke break gazes from each other.

* * *

She's fine. Completely, utterly fine. She smiles at the people as they congratulate Octavia, Lincoln and Bellamy on the marriage. She makes polite chit-chat, watches members of the tribe hand the new couple gifts, both knives and baby blankets, something that would ordinarily amuse her.

Finally Octavia and Lincoln move away to have their first dance, and all eyes are on them. Bellamy shoots her a desperate look, and she turns away, moves out the stuffed, crowded room, outside. There are people milling round, but she steps further and further away, to Bellamy's house –

To _their_ house.

It is completely empty; everyone is at the wedding, even the servants. She can't bear to go upstairs, to the bedroom, so she stays in the living room, her hands running through her hair, making it go curly again.

The door opens. "Clarke-" Bellamy begins.

In less than a second she's crossed the room, and his face clicks to the side. He closes his eyes, reaching up to stroke his cheek. "I understand that you're mad," he begins, and she can tell he's about to launch into one of his speeches.

"Mad? Oh, no, I'm not mad. I'm not at all upset that, all this time – you and I have been _married_." She can feel her entire body shaking, her heart racing against her chest – and yet, hadn't she always known this? Deep down, hadn't she sensed it? The way she was always with Bellamy even on formal occasions, how people looked at the two of them, how no one questioned that they shared a bed or spent so much time together –

"Clarke." Bellamy's face hovers above her, snapping her back to reality. "Let me explain."

"Please, tell me what explanation there is for marrying me."

"How about the fact that you were in danger, and that tying your bloodline to mine was the only way to ensure your protection," he snaps. "Marrying you – it made you my wife, the future queen – no one would dare attack you after that. There was no other way to give you that kind of protection."

"And you didn't tell me because?"

He gives a bark of a laugh. "You haven't exactly taken it well."

Something else clicks in her mind. "That's the real reason you and I share a room – a _bed_. So everyone would believe we were married."

He nods once. "I don't know what it's like back where you lived, but here, a marriage isn't – what's the word? – _legal_ until the man and woman have slept together. I had to make sure that people believed we were truly married." He glances away, his hand flexing. "I wouldn't have bothered if we didn't have servants – they would have talked, and the whole thing would have blown up in our faces."

"So all this time – _everyone_ but me has known?" Bellamy can't meet her gaze, and she whirls away from him. "Oh my God."

"That was the whole point," he mutters. "Why do you think I had the guards witness it?"

"And people just accepted it?" She thinks back, to those days when people hated her: stared at her with dark eyes, not going anywhere near her, tense in case she made a move against them.

"Not at first. But then you delivered the babies, and Octavia and Cora accepted you, and the guards spoke of your bravery, and people saw that you cared. You became one of us." She can tell that he wants to smile. "People congratulated me on choosing such a strong wife."

She shakes her head, her hair flying around her. "This isn't a joke Bellamy-"

He snorts. "I think I know that more than you."

"But – why? You barely knew me and yet you were willing to marry me in order to protect me? I mean, I thought kings and queens married for alliances. I – I couldn't give you anything. What political advantage did it give you? I've caused you nothing but complications..." The words seem to be coming out her mouth faster, unstoppable, and she doesn't know why but she doesn't like the look Bellamy is giving her, like his whole face has lost its sharp angles and hardness, and she doesn't know if she wants to hear it or not –

"Because I love you."

She feels those words, right to her very core. Something that again, deep down, she knew. But sometimes you can't face something until it's been spoken aloud.

"So," Clarke says after a moment – what feels like a huge gaping moment of silence. "We're married?"

He is watching her, keeping a careful space between them. "Yes."

"You married me so you could protect me? Because you loved me?"

"Yes."

By now she has stepped closer to him, and she can see that he's got his arms ready to lift in case she attacks him. "Make no mistake," she states coolly, "I am very, _very_ upset with you." And then she stands on her tiptoes and kisses him.

She tells him that she's mad at him, over and over again, even as they tear at each other's clothes. And when they're lying in bed, their bodies pressed together under the warm blankets after having sex, Bellamy kisses her shoulder and says that if this is her version of being angry, he would love to see what she's like when she's happy.

* * *

 **XVII**

* * *

For a week after the wedding, they give out that they have flu, and tell everyone to stay away in case they're contagious. The servants leave food outside their bedroom door, and call through to ask if they're okay. The healer tries to see them, though Cora doesn't bother.

Neither of them gets out of bed except to go to the bathroom and for the food: they lie tangle in each other, hands together, bodies resting on top, sweat glistening from their skin. "Explain this to me," Clarke murmurs, the back of her head resting on his shoulder. "Why am I a princess and not a queen?"

Bellamy smiles in her direction. "Don't you like being a princess?" he teases.

"I'm just curious as to why I'm not yet a queen."

"Give me a kiss and maybe I'll tell you."

She rolls over on his body, enjoying the warmth that is coming from it. She plants a gentle kiss on his mouth, soft, and feels another thrill zap through her body. "There," she murmurs throatily, loving the look on his face, loving the way his kiss sends a tingle through her nerves. "Now explain."

His hands are on her back, running up and down her smooth skin. "When a king or queen gets married, their partner doesn't become a ruler until they give birth to a child, as that child will be the next ruler. That's when they earn the right to call themselves king or queen."

"I thought the kings and queens weren't based on bloodline."

"They are, and they aren't. Becoming ruler is a combination of having a good family line and a popularity contest." His smile is lazy as he watches her. His hand is now playing with the ends of her hair. "I wasn't exactly born to be King."

"That's a matter of opinion." But she is thinking. "Is that why Justin tried to poison me?"

He nods, a dark cloud passing over his face when Justin is mentioned. "Yes. I mean, for all he knew you could have been pregnant. If he had killed me and you were pregnant, our child would have been ruler – depending of course whether people wanted it, that is. He would want to make sure that none of the royal bloodline would survive."

"But he didn't poison Octavia-"

"Remember what I told you, about when you become a king or queen? Once that person is anointed, their siblings lose their place in the line of succession. All that matters is the line from the king or queen."

Clarke lowers her face into Bellamy's chest to hide her confusion – but only partly. She breathes him in before looking back up. "Is that why everyone went crazy when I tried to help in the med bay?"

"Yeah. For all they knew, you and I had been having sex like rabbits every night since our marriage. You could have been pregnant, and they didn't want to endanger our child."

She lies back, listening to his explanation. She couldn't help but marvel at the kindness of these people – _her_ people. It touches something inside her, and for a second she feels tears stinging in her eyes. Blinking them away, she asks, "Is that why Clovis propositioned me?"

She can't help but laugh when he sits up, knocking the covers off his chest. "He did what?"

Clarke tries to keep a straight face. "When we met at the feast, before we sat down. He definitely made a pass at me."

"He-" Bellamy uses a string of curse words, ones that she's only heard used by guards when they're really, _really_ pissed off. Royalty certainly doesn't speak like that. "Of course," he says, teeth gritted. "That _sonovabitch_. He would have made sure that you were caught, and our village would have gone mad. I could have been forced to divorce you."

She lifts her eyes. "I didn't know you could get divorced here."

"You can. It's easy if you're lower class; much more difficult if you're members of the royal family." For a second Bellamy shifts, looking uneasy. "Clarke, if you don't want to stay married to me, I would understand."

This time she sits up. The cover falls away, leaving her chest bare; but it's his words that hurt her more. "For the better part of a year you never told me that we were married; and now you're talking about getting divorced?"

"You're safe now. I wasn't exactly honest with you; I didn't ask your permission. So – look, I know we've been having sex-"

"You mean like rabbits?" The corner of Clarke's mouth twitches, ever so slightly.

She gets a smile from him. "I'm just saying that if you wanted to get divorced, I wouldn't be upset."

Clarke looks down at the sheets of the bed. "Do you want to get divorced?"

"I-" She hears him give a little growl. "I'm asking _you_."

She lifts her head. "I hated you when you first brought me here. I hated that you made me make the decision to give up Finn, that you forced me to come with you in this life. I wanted to go back home and forget about you.

"But you made me see the beauty of this place. You people, in this tribe – everyone looks out for it each other. You don't betray people for money, you don't leave the sick to die. You aren't paranoid; you don't haul people into prison for making a mistake. You don't kill people for wanting to read some books." Her voice lowers. "You don't burn people on their skin as a warning."

His fingers reach for her mark.

"I fell in love with this place, this life, because of you. And through that...I fell for you."

His eyes are veiled in softness. He sits up, destroying the distance between them in a single movement. "I don't want a divorce," he whispers.

"Neither do I." She leans against his shoulder, feels his skin – so earthly in scent, surprisingly soft – against her face. "Husband."

His entire body lifts; it's the only way she can describe it. His lips press against her body, and she smiles.

* * *

 **XVIII**

* * *

In the second spring of their marriage, Clarke and Bellamy have their first child. Her labour pains start in the middle of the night. Clarke walks up and down the room, making deep groaning sounds, while Bellamy, pale, doesn't leave her side. "I wish there was something I could do."

"Bellamy," Clarke says, teeth clenched together. "I love you, but if you say that one more time I _will_ kill you."

"I just-"

"I – will – kill – you."

"Relax," Octavia says, taking Clarke's hand but looking to her brother. "You should have heard the things I said to Lincoln when I gave birth to Ezekiel; they were much better insults."

"You never told me that," Clarke says, breathing in and out. "Just like you never told me a few other things."

Octavia rolls her eyes. "For gods' sake, it all worked out in the end, didn't it? I knew you and my brother were perfect for each other from the moment I met you. You should have seen – _aah!_ " Octavia cries out as Clarke clasps onto her hand.

Cora, naturally, helps the most. She keeps Clarke on her feet, making her walk back and forth and refusing to keep her to the bed when she feels like she wants to push. "It's much easier for a woman to give birth standing, believe it or not," she cheerfully informs Clarke as the girl leans against Bellamy.

"Yeah, I know, gravity and all that," she says, eyes clenched together. She pushes when another contraction hits, well aware that she's giving birth with a blind woman waiting to catch her child – but then, she's learnt to have faith in things you cannot see.

In the wee hours of the morning, their first child is born. Clarke collapses in sheer exhaustion, and even Bellamy is teary as he puts his lips on his son's soft head. Nicklaus grows up strong, blonde and beloved by everyone. He looks like Clarke mostly, except for the freckles across his face that seem more pronounced in the summer. He has his mother's gentle hands and his father's way with words. When he speaks, people listen; a born leader.

Not even a year later they have their first daughter, a dark-haired, pale skinned little girl that they call Skylar. She is quieter than her brother, but determined in a way that Bellamy declares is exactly like Octavia. She has the sweetest smile that anyone can recall, that can cause people to stop in the middle of sentences, and even before she is at the marrying age, boys are already appealing for her hand.

"Over my dead body," Bellamy growls. Clarke smiles into her shoulder and whispers assurances to her daughter that she'll marry before she turns thirty.

Next is Tarka. His hair is brown, almost mud, but his eyes are a powerful, dark blue. More sensible than the rest of his siblings put together, he pours over the family's books, forcing his eyes open so he can keep reading. Even when he grows older, Bellamy lets him read in their bed, and is loathed to put him in his own when he falls asleep.

"Bellamy," she explains as Tarka snuggles down under the covers, tucked under his father's arm. "How many times do I have to tell you, we're not going to be attacked in the middle of the night. Our children are safe."

"I know," he argues. His passes a hand through his son's thick hair. "I don't want to disturb him. Just this once," he promises, tactfully forgetting that he went through the same stage with Nicklaus and Skylar.

Their next child is a welcome relief. Only three months earlier Cora died, in the same house that her husband died in. The entire village had taken it hard, but Octavia and Bellamy had struggled the most. If their next one had been a girl they would have named their child after her; but a boy, they name after Clarke's father (besides which, a few months later Octavia has her third child and first girl, and she and Lincoln agree to name their daughter after her grandmother).

Oddly enough, Jake is the child that resembles Bellamy the most in looks and in stubbornness, whether he believes it or not. He goes missing a lot, driving them mad, usually found in places he shouldn't be: in the med bay talking to patients, in the stables in between the legs of the horses, or in the meeting room listening to discussions – once, even inside the grandfather clock in the hall, trying to figure out how it worked. One time Nicklaus finds him beyond the boundaries. "I was waiting for the wolves," he explains as Clarke bends over him, cleaning a cut.

"To eat you?" snaps Bellamy. He had turned the village inside out looking for him, his worry for his son increasing by the second.

Jake gives him a look that is beyond his years; as if _Bellamy_ is the child. "Wolves don't eat their own," he says, and Bellamy doesn't quite have an answer for that.

Clarke has three miscarriages after Jake. It hurts more than anything, and she almost resigns herself that they'll have no more children when she becomes pregnant again. It's a difficult birth, and their daughter is weak. The parents spent the better part of two weeks over her bed, almost waiting for her to give in.

But she is perhaps the most like her parents, because against all the odds she survives. They call her Hana, and at first she is struggles, called frail, silently assumed not to survive her first winter. But she would never know that. Like a wild horse determined to keep it's freedom, she will jump anything, her long blonde hair blazing in the sun as she leaps; sings louder than anyone, and dances with or without music. She takes life by the horns, and even as she hits her teenage years, she flies without thinking.

"Cora would be proud of her," says Clarke softly. They are in their bedroom, just about to go to bed. Already it is filled, Hana and Jake under the covers, meant to be listening to Tarka tell them a story, but all three of them are now asleep.

" _Babaduo_ would be proud of them all." Bellamy looks back at Clarke. "Are Skylar and Nick home?"

"Nick is. He said Skylar was on the porch."

"With who?" Bellamy's voice is deliberately even; but Clarke has been married to him for too long, knows him too well.

"Vitus," she says, naming Octavia's second son.

"And?"

"Ellis."

Bellamy swears and Clarke reaches out to hit him – "Not in front of the kids!" – and he peers towards the window. "Maybe I'll throw the dirty bathwater out the window."

She bursts out laughing. "Bellamy, Sky would see through that in a moment."

"Well – she's too young."

"Hardly younger than I was when I married you."

"That was different." But he's looking back at her, his mouth curving into the half-moon smile she knows so well. They've changed, grown older, gone through childbirth and arguments and disputes and even a war – but she still remembers the boy that married her to keep her safe, when he barely knew her.

"Let's go to bed," she murmurs, holding her hand out to him.

He casts a glance over at the three bodies tangled under the covers. "I don't think there's enough room."

"Then perhaps, husband, we should send them to their own beds?"

"We can't disturb them." Instead he picks up a quilt, pulling it over the two of them in front of the fire. "Let's just give them a little longer."

"Or hope that we'll fall asleep here?" She smiles, reaches to touch the line of his jaw. He pulls her towards him, bodies pressed together. "Bellamy?"

"Yes, dearest wife of mine?"

"I prefer Great One."

"Duly noted."

"I was wondering when exactly it was you fell in love with me?"

His eyebrows move together, but she can tell he's fighting a smile. "I've never told you?"

"Not in all these years."

He sinks into the sofa, his arm curling round her waist. "I'm not entirely sure," he admits, "but I think I fell in love with you the very moment you stabbed yourself with that knife. Before you did that, I thought you were just a foolish girl; but when I realised that you had enough courage to kill yourself..."

"You fell in love with me in the first minute of our meeting? _Before_ we even met?"

"I sure hope so, otherwise I have no excuse for why I spent the rest of that night staring at you while you slept."

She sits up, the quilt falling off her shoulders. "Why did you never tell me that?"

Bellamy's smile breaks through, reminding her of the blazing warmth of sunshine. "I didn't want you think I was a sap, especially since from the second I've known you, you've been so courageous."

She closes her eyes and thinks of the boy that pressed his palm against her own, that lay in bed beside her every night without expecting anything for nearly a year, that watched out for her even when she was fighting him tooth and nail. There are all different kinds of bravery, but Clarke knows that the strongest, the hardest, is opening yourself up to someone when you knew that they could tear you apart where it would hurt the most. "You've got that wrong," she murmurs, placing her head on his chest so she can hear the beating of his heart. "You're the bravest person I know."

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"' _...was it worth it?'_

' _Mate, if you find someone you love enough to ruin your entire life for, it's always worth it.'"_

Will Scarlett to Robin Hood, _Once Upon a Time_ 4x07, "The Snow Queen"

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 **A/N:** So, for the last time, let's review:

1) So Justin was the one who tried to poison them? Are you surprised? I'm not that good in writing mysteries, and in a way it was never meant to be one. What I really wanted was the fight scene...

2) ...which I hope you all enjoyed. Originally it wasn't very long at all, but when I came to edit I made it more drawn out. I was working up to the moment Clarke would finally use her skills and become a true warrior. I actually had a lot of fun writing that part.

3) Clarke decided to stay. I know a lot of you were waiting for the moment when she had to decide, and of course, Clarke had to be let go to realise that she wanted to stay. That was another bit I really loved writing. I wanted this chapter to show how Clarke had grown, not just in strength but how her mind changed too.

4) So, Clarke and Bellamy are married. Again, obvious, but I've always wanted to do a fic where Bellamy and Clarke get married either without knowing or when they're forced into it. I tried writing a few stories to that affect, but it's only in this one that it felt right. Of course, most of you realised it from the second this story started. But I hope you enjoyed how Clarke found out, and of course her decision to be with Bellamy.

5) I know the ending was kinda epilogue-y, but I usually want to write happy ending for these too. I loved showing their children and Octavia and Lincoln's children, and how Bellamy and Clarke lived happily ever after. Again, originally that part was a lot shorter, but I couldn't help myself.

6) Now, the quotes. THE QUOTES. In this chapter I have used quotes that I honestly love. Firstly, the quote by Lifehouse is from a song that I adore. I've always loved that line, and I thought that it really worked in the story, when Clarke and Bellamy were talking about their pasts. And this last quote, from _Once Upon a Time_... I love _Once Upon a Time._ I mean, Fairytales + incredible women + true love (Captain Swan specifically) – what's not to love? And ever since I heard the quote by Will Scarlett, I knew I wanted to use it. I had tried with other stories but it never really seemed to fit...until now. I am thrilled to have used it, especially in this story, and since many of you are _Once Upon a Time_ fans too, I hope you liked it.

7) For the most important part: **thank you.** I cannot thank enough everyone who followed, favourite, and especially those who reviewed this story. I had secretly been hoping that, seeing it was my 100th story, I would get a hundred reviews too. I calculated that I would need twenty reviews for each chapter – and I am amazed that every time a chapter went up you all excelled my expectations. I am so overjoyed that you loved this story, and the reviews you left encouraged me to keep writing. Thank you again.

So, that's it. I hope you all are happy with the ending. Again, please – for the last time, if you would leave a review? This time, since it's the last chapter, I will try to reply to them. Thanks again.

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 **Hours to make. Seconds to comment.**

 **PLEASE REVIEW!**


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